Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “Lucky me.”

  He opened the passenger-side door for me and said, “You ruined your suit, Mr. Sutter.”

  “It’s an old one.’’ Though the tie was new.

  • • •

  So I spent the next few hours at Midtown South with two detectives, describing the events that had taken about ten minutes to happen. I really was being cooperative, though as an attorney, and especially as the victim’s attorney, I could have blown them off and left anytime. In fact, when they started asking questions about who I thought had done the deed, I told them to stick to factual questions. One of the detectives, however, kept asking me about Sally Da-da, and I told him to go ask Sally Da-da about Sally Da-da. But Mr. Da-da was in Florida as it turned out. How convenient.

  So we went round and round, and this one detective, the bad-cop half of the team, asked me, “Why’d you save his life?”

  “He owes me money.”

  The good cop said, “He owes you his life. Collect on that.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  Good cop replied, “Still alive.”

  I told them the joke about the Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car, but they seemed sort of weary and barely chuckled. I was getting very yawny myself, but they kept pressing coffee on me.

  Midtown South is not an ordinary station house, but is sort of like headquarters for that part of Manhattan, and the joint was bustling with detectives on the second floor where I was. There was also a big room on the second floor where they kept mug-shot books, and I sat in there for about an hour with a detective who was passing me these books labeled “Wiseguys,’’ which I thought was funny.

  Well, I looked at more Italian faces in that hour than I see in Lattingtown in ten years, but I didn’t recognize any of the photos as either of the two sportsmen with the shotguns. I remembered a phrase I heard in an old gangster movie once, and I said, “Maybe they used outside talent. You know, a few boys blew in from Chicago. Check the train stations.”

  “Train stations?”

  “Well, maybe the airports.”

  Anyway, we went from mug shots to a slide show of a few dozen paesanos caught by the candid camera in their natural habitats. The detective explained, “These men have never been arrested, so we don’t have mug shots, but they’re all wiseguys.”

  So I looked at the slide screen until my eyes were about gone and I was yawning and my head ached. A detective said, “We really appreciate your cooperation.”

  “No problem.’’ But was I really going to finger the two gunmen if I saw their faces? Did I want to be a witness in a mob murder trial? No, I didn’t, but I would. Beyond all the bullshit of the last several months, I was still a good citizen, and had I seen the faces of either of those two men, I would have said, “Stop! That’s one of them.’’ But so far, no one looked familiar.

  But then I started to see familiar faces and I blinked. The slides I was looking at now were unmistakably those shot from the DePauw residence with Alhambra in the background. It was, in fact, the Easter Sunday rotogravure, and the enlarged, grainy slides showed a lot of people in their Easter finery getting out of big black cars. I said, “Hey, I remember that day.’’ And there was Sally Da-da with a woman who could well have been Anna’s sister, and there was Fat Paulie with a woman who could have been his brother, and there were faces I recognized from Giulio’s and from the Plaza Hotel, but none of those faces were the ones I had seen aiming down the barrels of those big cannons.

  Then the screen flashed to a night view of Alhambra, and there was wiseass John Sutter waving to the camera with pretty Susan in her red dress beside me, giving me a look of puzzled impatience. I said, “That’s the guy! I’ll never forget that face.”

  The two detectives chuckled. One of them said, “Looks like a killer.”

  “Beady eyes,’’ agreed the other.

  Well, the slide show ended, and to be honest, I couldn’t identify the two men, but I said, “Look, I’m willing to do this all over again, but not tonight.”

  “It’s best to do it while it’s still fresh in your mind, sir.”

  “It’s too fresh. All I can see now is four black muzzles.”

  “We understand.”

  “Good. Well, good night.”

  But not quite. I spent another few hours with a police sketch artist, a pretty woman, which made the thing sort of tolerable. I was very tempted to describe to her the features of Alphonse Ferragamo, but cops take this sort of thing seriously, and I guess I do, too. So I tried to re-create in words what two goombahs looked like on a dimly lit street, crouched behind a car with shotguns partially blocking their faces. Linda—that was the artist’s name—gave me a book of sketches of eyes and mouths and all that, and it was sort of fun, like a mix-and-match game, and we sat shoulder to shoulder hunched over the sketch pad. She wore a nice perfume, which she said was Obsession. As for me, my deodorant had quit, and the little splatters of mortality on my clothes were getting ripe.

  Anyway, she produced two sketches that, with some alterations, looked like the boys with the guns. But by this time, I was so punchy I literally couldn’t see straight. Linda said, “You were very observant considering the circumstances. Most people blank, you know, sort of like a hysterical blindness, and they can’t even tell you if the guy was black or white.”

  “Thank you. Did I mention that the guy on the right had a tiny zit on his jaw?”

  She smiled. “Is that so?’’ She took a fresh pad and said, “Sit still,’’ then did a quick charcoal sketch of me, which was a little embarrassing. She ripped off the sheet and slid it across the table. I picked it up and studied it a moment. The woman had obviously been drawing felons too long, because the guy in the sketch looked like a bad dude. I said, “I need some sleep.”

  Well, it was approaching dawn, and again I figured I was through for the night, but who should show up at Midtown South but Mr. Felix Mancuso of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I asked him, “Slumming?”

  But he was in no mood for my wit. Neither was I, to tell you the truth.

  I inquired, “How is my client doing?”

  “Alive, but not very well, I’m afraid. Lots of blood loss, and they’re talking about possible brain impairment.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Mr. Mancuso and I spoke in private for ten or fifteen minutes, and I leveled with him, and he believed me that I knew absolutely nothing more than what I’d told the NYPD, and that I really hadn’t been able to identify any of the mug shots or the faces on the slides. I did suggest, however, that Mr. Lenny Patrelli was part of the conspiracy.

  He replied, “We know that. The limo was found parked out by Newark Airport and Patrelli’s body was in the trunk.”

  “How awful.”

  Mr. Mancuso looked at me. “You could have been killed, you know.”

  “I know.”

  He said, “They still may decide to kill you.”

  “They may.”

  “Do you think they’re nice guys because they left you alive? Are you grateful?”

  “I was. But it’s wearing off.”

  “Do you want federal protection?”

  “No, I have enough problems. I really don’t think I’m on the hit list.”

  “You weren’t, but you may be now. You saw their faces.”

  “But that’s not what we’re telling the press, are we, Mr. Mancuso?”

  “No, but the guys who did the hit know you saw them up close, Mr. Sutter. They probably didn’t figure you would be that close to them or to Bellarosa, and they couldn’t be sure who you were. Pros don’t hit people they’re not told to hit or paid to hit. You could have been a cop for all they knew, or a priest in civvies. So they let you stand rather than get in trouble with the guys who ordered the job. But now we have a different situation.’’ He looked at me closely.

  I said, “I’m really not too concerned. Those guys were pros as you said, and they’re from someplace else, Mr. Mancuso. They’re long, long gone
, and I wouldn’t be too surprised if they turned up in a trunk, too.”

  “You’re a cool customer, Mr. Sutter.”

  “No, I’m a realistic man, Mr. Mancuso. Please don’t try to scare me. I’m scared enough.”

  He nodded. “Okay.’’ Then he made eye contact with me and said, “But I told you, didn’t I? I told you no good would come of this. I told you. Correct?”

  “Correct. And I told you, Mr. Mancuso, what Alphonse Ferragamo was up to. Didn’t I? So if you want to find another accessory to this attempted murder, go talk to him.”

  Poor Mr. Mancuso, he looked sleepy and sad and really disgusted. He said, “I hate this. This killing.”

  I informed Saint Felix that I didn’t care much for it either. And on the subject of mortality, I also informed him, “I stink of blood. I’m leaving.”

  “All right. I’ll drive you. Where do you want to go?”

  I thought a moment and replied, “Plaza Hotel.”

  “No, you want to go home.”

  Maybe he was right. “Okay. Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  So, after some NYPD formalities, including a promise by me not to leave town, we left Midtown South and got into Mr. Mancuso’s government-issued vehicle and went through the Midtown Tunnel, heading east on the expressway. The sun was coming up and it was a beautiful morning.

  Mr. Mancuso and I must have had a simultaneous thought because he asked me, “Are you happy to be alive?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  So was I. I asked him, “How is Mrs. Bellarosa?”

  “She looked all right when I saw her a few hours ago.’’ He asked me, “And Mrs. Sutter? Was she very upset?”

  “She seemed composed when I last saw her.”

  “These things sometimes have a delayed reaction. You should keep an eye on her.”

  I should have kept an eye on her since April, and I think that’s what he meant. “She’s a strong woman.”

  “Good.”

  We made small talk as we headed into the rising sun, and to his credit, he wasn’t taking the opportunity to pump me about this or that, and so I didn’t bug him about Ferragamo again.

  Whatever we were talking about must have been boring because I fell asleep and awoke only when he poked me as we drove up Stanhope Hall’s gates, which Susan had left open. Mancuso drove up to the guesthouse and I got out of the car and mumbled my thanks to him. He said, “We’ll keep an eye on the place. We’re here anyway.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you want this sketch? Is this supposed to be you?”

  “Keep it.’’ I stumbled out of the car, staggered to the door, and let myself in. On the way up the stairs, I peeled off my bloody clothes and left them strewn on the steps where Lady Stanhope could deal with the mess. I arrived at the guest bathroom stark naked (except for my Yale ring) and took a shower sitting down. Madonn’, what a lousy night.

  I went into my little room and fell into bed. I lay there staring up at the ceiling as the morning sun came in the window. I heard Susan in the hallway, then heard her on the stairs. It sounded as if she was gathering up the clothes.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on my door and I said, “Come in.”

  Susan entered, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a glass of orange juice. “Drink this,’’ she said.

  I took the orange juice and drank it, though I had a stomach full of coffee acid.

  She said, “The policeman who drove me home said you were a lucky man.”

  “I’m definitely on a lucky streak. Tomorrow I’m going skydiving.”

  “Well, you know what he meant.’’ She added, “I’m lucky to have you home.”

  I didn’t reply, and she stood there awhile, then finally asked me, “Is he dead?”

  “No. But he’s critical.”

  She nodded.

  “How do you feel about that?’’ I inquired.

  She replied, “I don’t know.’’ She added, “Maybe you did the right thing.”

  “Time will tell.’’ I informed her, “I’m tired.”

  “I’ll let you get some sleep. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sleep well.’’ She left and closed the door behind her.

  As I lay there, I had this unsettling feeling that I had done the right thing, but for the wrong reason. I mean, my instinct as a human being was to save a life. But my intellect told me that the world would be well rid of Mr. Frank Bellarosa. Especially this part of the world.

  But I had saved his life, and I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was the right thing to do. But really, I had done it because I wanted him to suffer, to be humiliated knowing he was the target of his own people, and to face the judgment of society, not the judgment of the scum that had no legal or moral right to end anyone’s life, including the life of one of their own.

  Also, I wanted my piece of him.

  But while I was telling myself the truth, I admitted that I still liked the guy. I mean, we had clicked right from the beginning. And if Frank Bellarosa had any conscious thoughts at that moment, he was thinking about what a good pal I was to stop him from bleeding to death. Mamma mia, we should have had a pizza delivered.

  Well, trying to clear your head and your conscience at the same time is pretty exhausting, so I tuned in to a fantasy about Linda the sketch artist and fell asleep.

  Thirty-five

  The tough son of a bitch survived, of course, thanks mostly to my Eagle Scout and army first-aid skills. The press had made a big deal about my saving Bellarosa’s life, and one of those inane inquiring-photographer pieces in a tabloid asked: Would you save the life of a dying Mafia boss? All six respondents said yes, going on about humanity and Christianity and all that. Sally Da-da might have had a slightly different opinion if asked, and I sort of suspected he was pissed off at me.

  Anyway, it was mid-October now, Columbus Day to be precise, and perhaps that had something to do with my deciding to pay a call on Mr. Frank Bellarosa, who had been discharged from the hospital about two weeks before and was convalescing at Alhambra.

  I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since our unfortunate dinner at Giulio’s, and in fact, I hadn’t even sent a card or flowers. Actually, he owed me flowers. But I had followed the news accounts of his medical progress and so forth. Also, Jenny Alvarez and I had been meeting in Manhattan for lunch now and then, and she gave me the latest mob gossip. The latest was this: Unlike with some failed Mafia hits where the intended victim survives and is granted a sort of stay of execution in return for acknowledging that he deserved what he almost got, the contract on Frank the Bishop Bellarosa was still in force.

  Ms. Alvarez and I, incidentally, had progressed in our relationship toward a more spiritual and intellectual plane, which means I wasn’t screwing her. Just as well. That really complicates things.

  So, on that sunny, mild Columbus Day morning, I walked across the back acreage to Alhambra, where I was stopped near the Virgin Mary by two men wearing blue windbreakers on which were stenciled the letters FBI. They both carried black M-16s. I introduced myself, and they asked for identification, though they seemed to know who I was. I produced my IDs and one of them used a hand-held radio to call someone. I could hear part of the conversation, and it sounded as if the guy on the other end had to go see if Mr. Bellarosa was receiving, as they say. I guess he was, because one of the FBI guys said he had to frisk me and he did. He then escorted me toward the house.

  I knew, of course, that the guard had changed at Alhambra. Well, two of them were dead for one thing. But Tony and the other characters I had seen floating around all summer had disappeared, either of their own volition or by government decree. Anyway, the Feds were in charge now, and Frank, though safer, was less free, like his birds in their gilded cages. He wasn’t actually under arrest; he had apparently switched sides according to the press. Hey, would you blame him?

 
Anyway, the FBI guy with the M-16 said to me as we walked, “You understand that he has dismissed you as his attorney, and anything he says to you is not privileged information.”

  “I sort of figured that out.’’ Most FBI agents are lawyers, and maybe even this guy, with his government-issued L. L. Bean look-alikes and his rifle, was an attorney. I like to see attorneys do macho things. Good for the profession’s image.

  I asked, “Is his wife home?”

  “Not today. She stays with relatives on and off.”

  “Is Mr. Mancuso here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  We crossed the patio, which was covered with autumn leaves, and passed by the pizza oven, whose door was rusty. We entered the great house through the rear doors where another agent, wearing a suit, took charge and escorted me into the palm court.

  The palm court was filled with bouquets and baskets of get-well flowers and smelled like a funeral home. Mamma mia, these people were into cut flowers. I peeked at a few cards, and on the biggest flower arrangement was a card that said: Frank, Welcome home. Feel better. Love, Sal and Marie. No. Could that be Sally Da-da? What was Anna’s sister’s name? I think it was Marie. What incredible gall.

  Anyway, there were a few other federales in the palm court, and one of them ran a metal detector over me while I admired the flowers.

  The detector went off and the guy said, “Please empty your pockets, sir.”

  “It went off because I have brass balls,’’ I informed him, but I emptied my pockets just the same. I was wearing a tweed shooting jacket, perhaps not the best choice of attire for the occasion, and sure enough, in the side pocket was a clasp knife, which was missed by the frisk search, and which I use to extract jammed shotgun shells. But I didn’t mention that because these guys looked tense enough.

  “May I have that, sir?”

  I gave him the knife and he ran the detector over me again. While this was going on, I spotted a female nurse walking across the palm court. She was an older woman, not a hanky-panky nurse, and she looked tough, the kind who gives ice-water enemas without lubrication.

  So, the gent escorted me up the stairs, but I said, “If he’s in his den, I know the way.”