Authors: Nelson DeMille
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He lit another cigarette and looked out over his five acres and the adjoining properties, and said to me, “This all belonged to my father.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “You’re going to get me compensated for this.”
I was tired of this subject, so again, I didn’t reply. Also, it was now time to tell him that Susan and I were back together, and that I was not going to work for him. I began by asking him, “Why did you tell your uncle that I was doing tax work for you?”
“Because you are.”
“Anthony, we didn’t shake hands on that.”
“You having second thoughts?”
“I’m past second thoughts.”
“You trying to shake me down for more money?”
“The money is fine—the job sucks.”
“How do you know until you try?”
I ignored the question, and asked him again, “Why did you tell your uncle I was working for you?”
He replied, “He thinks you have some power. Some connections. And that’s good for me.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because he’s stupid.”
“I see.” The king hires a sorcerer who has no magical powers, but everyone thinks he does, which is the same thing as far as the king and his enemies are concerned. Maybe I
should
ask for more money. Or, at least a bulletproof vest in case Sally Da-da wanted me whacked for working for Anthony.
Anthony further informed me, “When you work for me, you don’t need to have anything to do with my uncle.”
“That’s a disappointment.”
Anthony got the sarcasm and chuckled.
I raised a new issue, known as a strawdog, and said, “With my daughter working for the Brooklyn DA, you might not want me working for you.”
“You’re not going to be involved with anything that ever has to do with what your daughter does.”
I had this funny thought of Carolyn working on the case of
The
State v. John Sutter
. “Sorry, Dad. It’s business, not personal.” I said to Anthony, “Maybe not, but it could be embarrassing to my daughter if the press ever made the connection between me, you, and her.”
“Why?”
“Anthony, you may be shocked to hear this, but some people think you are involved in organized crime.”
He didn’t seem shocked to hear that, and neither did he seem annoyed that I’d brought it up. He said to me, “John, I have five legitimate companies that I own or run. One of them, Bell Security Service, is landing big contracts all over since 9/11. That’s where the money comes from.” He leaned toward me and said, “That’s all you got to know, and that’s all there is to know.” He sat back and said, “I can’t help what my family name is. And if some asshole in the newspaper says anything about me, I’ll sue his ass off.”
This sounded so convincing that I was ready to send a contribution to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League. But before I did that, I should speak to Felix Mancuso about Anthony Bellarosa.
Anthony reached into his pocket and said, “You want a card? Here’s my card.”
I took it and saw it was a business card that said, “Bell Enterprises, Inc.,” and there was an address in the Rego Park section of Queens, and a 718 area code phone number, which is also the borough of Queens.
Anthony said, “See? I’m a legitimate businessman.”
“I see that. The proof is right here.”
He didn’t think that was too funny, but he said, “I wrote my cell and home number on the back.” He added, “Keep that to yourself.”
There was little more to say on this subject, and dinner still hadn’t been announced, so I began, “Anthony . . .” I have some good news and some bad news. “I want you to know that—”
Kelly Ann ran out of the house and announced, “Dinner in ten minutes—” Then she saw the cigarette in the ashtray and shouted, “Daddy! You’re smoking! You’re going to die!”
Personally, I didn’t think Daddy was going to live long enough to die from smoking, but I didn’t share that with Kelly Ann.
Anthony’s response to being busted was to throw me under the bus by saying, “Mr. Sutter smokes, sweetheart. That’s not Daddy’s cigarette. Right, John?”
“Right.” I reached over and took the cigarette, but Kelly Ann was no dummy and shouted, “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!” Then she turned and ran into the house, and I could hear her shouting, “Mommy! Daddy is smoking!”
Anthony took the cigarette from me, drew on it, then snuffed it out and explained, “Those fucking teachers. They tell them that drugs, alcohol, and smoking are the same thing. They’re fucking up the kids’ heads.”
I didn’t respond, but I did think about poor Anthony, surrounded by controlling, ball-busting females. His mother, his aunt, his wife, his daughter, and maybe even his mistress. It was a wonder he hadn’t turned gay. More importantly, he seemed to have little control over his domestic life, unlike his father who was the undisputed
padrone
of Alhambra. Plus, Anthony didn’t have the
testicoli
to tell his six-year-old daughter to
sta’ zitto.
Well, that’s my observation, and about half of my Italian. My other thought was that maybe he
was
a lightweight, and I shouldn’t worry too much about Susan.
I stood and said, “I’d like to use your phone.”
“Sure.” Anthony walked me toward another set of double doors at the far end of the house and advised me, “You got to get a cell phone.”
“I’ll leave a quarter next to the phone.”
“You’ve been gone too long. Leave a buck.” He opened one of the doors and said, “That’s my den. You can find your way to the dining room.”
I entered the dark, air-conditioned room, and he closed the door behind me.
Anthony’s den was very masculine—mahogany, brass, leather, a wet bar, and a big television—and I guessed he took refuge in here whenever the estrogen levels got too high in the rest of the house.
The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I spotted his father’s collection of books from La Salle Military Academy. Frank, as I said, was a big fan of Machiavelli, but he also read St. Augustine and St. Ambrose so he could argue theology with priests. I wondered where he was now, and whom he was arguing with.
Anthony, on the other hand, favored the pagans, and I saw shelves lined with books about the Roman Empire, and I knew that Anthony wasn’t the first Mafia don to be impressed with how the Romans ran things, and how they settled their problems by whacking entire nations. Unfortunately, people like Anthony become educated beyond their intelligence, and they become more dangerous than, say, Uncle Sal.
Anyway, I found the phone on his desk and dialed Elizabeth’s cell phone. As the phone rang, I had two thoughts: One was that there was nothing in or on this desk that Anthony wouldn’t want me, his wife, or the FBI to see; the other was that his phone was probably tapped by one or more law enforcement agencies, or maybe even by Anthony’s business competitors, and perhaps by Anthony himself so he could check up on Megan. But now, with cell phones, the taps on landline phones would not be so interesting, so maybe no one was bothering with a phone tap. Nevertheless, I’d watch what I said.
Elizabeth’s voice mail informed me that she couldn’t take the call and invited me to leave a message at the beep. I said, “Elizabeth, this is John. Sorry I won’t be able to meet you at seven.” I hesitated, then said, “Susan and I are meeting.” I added, “Hope your mother is resting comfortably. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
I hung up and dialed Susan’s cell phone. She answered, and I said, “Hi, it’s me.”
“John, I’m glad you called. How is it going?”
“All right—”
“Did you tell him—?”
“Not yet, and I can’t speak freely.”
She probably thought that I was in earshot of Anthony, and not thinking about a phone tap. She said, “Well, let me tell you what’s happening. The phone rang in the gatehouse while I was packing your things, and I answered it.”
“All right . . .” Samantha? Elizabeth? Iranian terrorists?
Susan continued, “It was Elizabeth, looking for you.”
“Right. I used to live there.”
“She said that her mother has taken a turn for the worse and has slipped into a coma.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but we knew—”
“And she won’t be able to meet you at seven.”
“Oh . . . right. She wanted to take me to dinner to thank me—”
“She told me that. And I took the opportunity to tell her that you and I were back together.”
“Great. She was hoping we’d get back together.”
“That’s not the impression I had from our brief conversation. She seemed surprised.”
“Really? Well, I’m surprised, too. All right, let me get Anthony aside—”
“John, just tell him you need to leave
now
. I told Elizabeth we’d meet her at Fair Haven.” She added, “You can phone him later and tell him.”
“Susan, I need to do this now. In person. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“All right. Good luck. I love you.”
“Me, too.” I hung up and looked around the den again. Above the fireplace was a reproduction of Rubens’
Rape of the Sabine Women
, which I thought said more about Anthony Bellarosa’s head than about his taste in art.
I was about to leave, but then I noticed, sitting on an easel, a familiar painting. It was, in fact, Susan’s oil painting of the palm court of Alhambra in ruins. I’d seen this painting for the first and last time in the restored palm court of Alhambra with Frank Bellarosa’s body lying a few feet away, and the artist herself being led off in handcuffs.
My judgment of the painting then was that it was one of her best. And I also recalled, looking at it now, that I’d made some sort of analogy between Susan’s representation of ruin and decay and her state of mind. Even today, I’m not sure if I wasn’t overanalyzing this. But I do remember that I put my fist through the canvas and sent it and the easel flying across the palm court.
I moved closer to the painting, and whoever had restored it had done a perfect job; it would be nice if life restoration was as perfect.
More to the point, I wondered who had it restored, and why, and also why it was here in Anthony Bellarosa’s den. I could see Susan’s clear signature in the right-hand corner, so Anthony knew who painted it.
I could think about this for a long time, and I could come up with any number of valid and invalid theories about why this painting was here; also, I could just ask him why. But that would only confuse what was simple; it was time to tell Anthony I wasn’t working for him, and tell him to stay away from my once and future wife.
When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, he knew there was no going back, so with that in mind, I took a letter opener from Anthony’s desk, went to the painting, and slashed the canvas until it was in shreds. Then I left the den and walked down a long corridor toward the sounds of dinner being served.
T
he long dining room table was set at one end for six people, and on the table were platters of mixed antipasto, a loaf of Italian bread, and a bottle of red wine.
Anthony was at the head of the table, Megan to his right, and his mother to his left. The kids sat together next to their mother, and Anna was helping herself to salami and cheese. She said to me, “Sit. Here. Next to me.”
I announced, “I apologize, but I need to go.”
Anna stopped serving herself and asked, “Go? Go where?”
I explained to everyone, “Ethel Allard, the lady who lives in the gatehouse, is in hospice, and she’s slipped into a coma.”
Anthony said, “That’s too bad.”
I continued, “I do apologize, but I need to be there in case”—I glanced at the children—“in case she passes tonight.”
Anna made the sign of the cross, but no one else did, though I considered it briefly.
Young Frank asked, “What’s a coma?”
Anthony was standing now, and he said to me, “Sure. No problem. We’ll do this again.”
Megan, too, stood, and said, “Let us know what happens.”
Kelly Ann inquired, of no one in particular, “What happens when you slip on a coma?”
Anna offered, “Let me pack you some food.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I need to hurry.” I looked at Anthony and nodded toward the door. He said, “I’ll walk you out.”
I gave Anna a quick hug, wished everyone a good dinner, and followed Anthony into the foyer.
He said to me, “When you know how that’s going, let me know. And when Gotti goes, you’ll know on the news, so after all this is done, we’ll get together.”
I said to him, “Let’s step outside.”
He looked at me, then glanced back toward the dining room and shouted, “Go ahead and start,” then he opened the door and we stepped outside and stood under the portico. He took the opportunity to light a cigarette and asked me, “What’s up?”
I said to him, “Susan and I have decided to get back together.”
“Huh?”
“Susan. My ex-wife. We are getting back together.”
He thought about that for a second, then said, “And you’re telling me this
now
?”
“When did you want to know?”
“Yesterday.”
“I didn’t know yesterday. And what difference does it make to you?”
He answered indirectly. “You know, I never understood how a guy could take back a wife who cheated on him. I don’t know about a guy like that.”
I would have suggested that he go fuck himself, but that would have ended the conversation, and I wasn’t finished. But I did say, “I hope you never have to find out what you’d do.”
That annoyed him, and he told me, “Hey, I
know
what
I’d
do, but you can do what the hell you want.”
“Thank you. I have.”
“I thought you were a smart guy, John. A guy who had some self-respect.”
I wasn’t going to let him bait me, and I didn’t need to respond, but I said, “That is none of your business.”
He replied, “I think it is. I think maybe this changes things between us.”
“There was never anything between us.”
“You’re full of shit. We had a deal, and you know it.”
“We didn’t, but if you think we did, the deal is off.”
“Yeah. If you go back to her, the deal is definitely off. But . . . if you change your mind about her, then we can talk.”