Authors: Nelson DeMille
“All right.” I put the shotgun in my walk-in closet, resting it against the wall behind the open door. I told her where it was, then I got in the shower.
She opened the shower door and joined me, and I scrubbed her back with a loofah sponge, then as she scrubbed my back, I said to her, “Using sex as a means of controlling me or modifying my behavior is not fair.”
“All’s fair in love and war, John.”
“All right. Remember you said that.”
“Plus, it works.” She put her hand between my legs, gave John a little tweak, and got out of the shower.
As we got dressed, she asked me, “What is the purpose of Felix Mancuso’s visit?”
I replied, “To see if the FBI has any interest or jurisdiction in this matter.”
She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “He doesn’t like me.”
“It’s not personal. It’s professional.”
She replied, “I think it’s personal.”
It was time to dig up the dirty past, because Felix Mancuso would do that anyway, and Susan needed to be prepped for this, so I reminded her, “You killed his star witness in the FBI’s case against organized crime, and it’s not often that the FBI gets a man like Frank Bellarosa to sing.” She didn’t respond, so I continued, “Losing a witness to murder, on his watch, did not help Special Agent Mancuso’s career.”
She stayed silent awhile, then informed me, “He was very much against allowing me to visit.”
I knew that, but I was surprised she knew it, or that she was willing to discuss any of this. But I guess the time had come for her to unblock it. As for Felix Mancuso’s disapproval of letting Frank and Susan go at it, this was because of his own professional standards, as well as his sense of morality and propriety, and maybe his positive feelings for me, which not everyone around him shared.
And so, to that extent, Susan was correct; it was personal. In any case, what happened was certainly not Mancuso’s fault—no one could have foreseen Susan shooting don Bellarosa—but I’d had the impression at the time that Mancuso was the fall guy. Why? Because when the shit hits the fan, the guy who said “I told you so” is usually the guy everyone else pushes in front of the shit stream.
But rather than tell Susan that St. Felix basically thought she was a Mafia groupie and a tramp, I brought the discussion back to the professional issues and said, “Mancuso was also not thrilled that you walked free on the murder charge.”
She surprised me by saying, “That was more the fault of his superiors.” She added, “I was ready to pay the price.”
I looked at her, and I was certain she meant that. And she was right—it wasn’t her fault that the government took a dive on the case; the scales of justice are always tipped toward the best interests of the government, and sometimes that means burying inconvenient or embarrassing facts, and letting the guilty go free. It occurred to me that if she’d been indicted and took a plea for maybe manslaughter, she’d be getting out about now. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have divorced her, and that I’d have waited for her. Though I may have still taken that sail around the world.
I finished dressing and switched to another unpleasant subject, reminding her, “The next few days are going to be stressful,” meaning not only Ethel’s wake and funeral, plus trying to avoid our own funerals, but also her parents being somewhere in this zip code. I added, “We need to . . . communicate with each other.”
Susan nodded, then said, “I had a very sad dream about Ethel . . . she was sitting alone, crying . . . and I asked her why she was sad. And she said to me, ‘Everyone is dead.’ So I tried to comfort her . . . but she kept crying, and I was crying, and I had this . . . overwhelming sense of being alone . . . then I said, ‘I’ll call John.’”
She looked at me, and I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I took her in my arms and we hugged. I said to her, “You’re not alone.”
“I know. But I was for so many years, and it didn’t feel good.”
We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen, reading the
Times
and having coffee, waiting for Sophie, for Felix Mancuso, William and Charlotte Stanhope, and whomever and whatever else the day had in store for us.
S
ophie, the cleaning lady, came at 8:00 A.M., and Susan’s personal trainer, an androgynous chap named Chip, arrived at 8:30. The gardeners showed up to work in the rain, UPS delivered something at 9:00, the mailman came at 9:15, and the dry cleaner came by to drop off and pick up at 9:30. It occurred to me that a Mafia hit man would have to wait his turn in the foyer.
The phone rang all morning, and after Susan finished with her trainer, she spent some time in the office making and taking phone calls and e-mailing. A lot of this communication had to do with Ethel’s wake and funeral, and Susan spoke to Elizabeth a few times and also spoke to the funeral home, the florist, and a few limousine companies—do
not
use Bell Car Service—and she also got hold of the caretakers for the Stanhope cemetery. I wanted to suggest that she get two more holes dug for William and Charlotte while she was at it—but she might take that the wrong way. On that subject, I had a question for her. “What do you do when you miss your in-laws? You reload and fire again.”
I didn’t actually ask her that question, but that did remind me to buy shotgun shells, and further reminded me to tell her, “Reserve a cottage for your parents at The Creek.”
She replied, “Let’s first see if they want to stay with us.”
“What time are they arriving?”
“I told you five times—they arrive at LaGuardia at three-fifteen, and they should be here about five.” She added, “We’ll have cocktails and discuss . . . things.”
“All right.” Where do you keep the rat poison? “What time is the viewing tonight?”
“I also told you that. Seven to nine.” She filled me in on the daily viewing schedule, and apparently Ethel had left instructions for an extended engagement at the funeral home, so that no one had an excuse to miss her final act. Susan concluded, “The funeral Mass is Saturday at ten A.M. Do you want me to write this down?”
“No. I have you, darling.”
She further informed me, “This Sunday is Father’s Day. In my e-mail exchanges with my parents and the children, it appears that we’ll all be here on Sunday, so I’ve suggested dinner at home to mark the occasion.”
Susan seemed more optimistic than I was about this reunion, but I said, “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I inquired, “Do your parents know that I’m here?”
“They know from the children that you are back for the funeral, and that you are living in the gatehouse.”
“Actually, I’m not.”
“They haven’t been updated on that.”
“Right. And they have no problem with me being here for a Father’s Day dinner?”
“They understand that Edward and Carolyn want you to join us for Father’s Day.” She added, “I told them I was fine with that.”
“I see. So when do we tell your parents that I’m living here and sleeping with you?”
“When they arrive.” She explained, “It’s better to present them with a fait accompli.”
Which, hopefully, would lead to them having a grand mal seizure, followed by me administering a coup de grace with the shotgun. “All right. Do it your way.”
She changed the subject and inquired, “Do you think I should invite your mother, or will that be sad for her with your father gone?”
I replied with overdone enthusiasm, “Harriet would be
delighted
to be included, and I look forward to having dinner with her
and
your parents.”
Susan looked at me closely and asked, “Can you handle all that?”
I replied, “The answer is martinis.”
She had no comment on that, except to say, “I’m counting on you, John, to set a good example for Edward and Carolyn.”
“You can count on me, sweetheart.” I honestly intended to do my best to put the fun back into dysfunctional, and I suggested, “Your father and I will sit at the opposite heads of the table and sing a duet of ‘Oh, My Papa.’”
She still seemed skeptical for some reason, so I added, “I will honor your father on that special day, Susan, because he gave me you.”
“That’s very sweet of you, John.” She reminded me, “We’re really doing this for Edward and Carolyn, so if you have to bite your tongue a few times, the children will respect you even more for being a big man. And if my father is not pleasant, then that is his problem.”
“Always has been.”
“And please do not sit there like you did at the last dinner we had together, simmering until you exploded and called him . . . whatever.”
“An unprincipled asshole, a—”
“All right, John. And you promised to apologize for that.”
“I’m anxious to do that.”
She looked at me closely and said, “John . . . it’s for the children . . . and I don’t mean their emotional well-being—I mean their financial well-being.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I did remind her, however, “You didn’t think your parents would financially punish their grandchildren because of us.” I couldn’t resist adding, “No one would be so vindictive.”
She replied, “Let’s not test that assumption.”
“I hear you.” I asked her, “Will we have the pleasure of your brother’s company for these sad and happy occasions?”
She replied, “Peter will not be in for Ethel’s funeral. But he’ll try to make it in for Father’s Day.”
“Wonderful. And where is Peter working these days?”
“The Bahamas.”
“Doing what?”
“Surfing.”
“Right. Well, if he starts now and catches a few good waves, he can be here by Sunday.”
I thought that would make her angry, but she smiled and said, “The Stanhopes bring out the best of your wit.”
You ain’t seen nothing yet, lady. I changed the subject and reminded her, “Felix Mancuso will be here shortly. I’m counting on
you
, Susan, to put aside any negative feelings you may have toward him, and to be helpful and pleasant.” I added, “Just as I will do with your parents.”
“All right. Point made.” She thought for a moment, then said to me, “This is everyone’s chance to make up for the past. Or at least, let go of the past.”
“Indeed, it is.”
I thought about my deathbed conversation with Ethel, who I sincerely hoped had had similar conversations with everyone who visited her. We don’t all have the certainty of a long goodbye, so we often miss the chance to set things right before we stop breathing and talking.
Alternately, we can leave letters behind for everyone, in case we didn’t get a chance to say, “Sorry I was such an asshole,” and I suspected that Ethel’s letter to me was along those lines. And if the truth be known, there were three such letters from me, sitting with my solicitor in London; one each to Edward and Carolyn, and one to Susan. The easiest letter to write is the one that begins, “If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead . . .” Maybe I should also write one to William and Charlotte:
Dear Assholes
. . .
Susan asked me, “What are you thinking about?”
“About . . . how lucky we are . . . you and I . . . and how lucky I am that you made this happen . . . and that no matter what happens next, we’ve had this time together.”
T
he doorbell rang at 10:00 A.M., and I opened the door to Special Agent Felix Mancuso.
We shook hands and exchanged greetings, and as I showed him into the foyer, he took off his rain hat, and I saw that his baldness hadn’t progressed much in ten years, but what was left of his hair had gone from black to salt-and-pepper. When his beat had been La Cosa Nostra, Special Agent Mancuso’s Italian-made suits were always better than theirs; but now, I noticed, his gray suit and his shirt and tie were nothing special, and he’d blend in nicely on the streets of New York as he followed terrorists around the city—or whatever he did with the Terrorist Task Force. I noticed, too, he was wearing a flag pin on his lapel, the better to blend in with everyone else in New York.
Susan was in the kitchen, and I’d asked her to give me ten minutes with Mancuso, so I showed him into my new old office and invited him to sit in my old leather club chair. He did a quick scan of the room as I sat at my desk chair and shut off the phone ringer.
He said to me, “This is a very nice place you have here.” He asked, “And this was your wife’s family estate?”
“We like to say ancestral home.”
He saw I was being droll, so he smiled.
I informed him, “She owns only this guest cottage and ten acres. Most of the remaining acreage and the main house are now owned by Mr. Amir Nasim, who, as I mentioned, has a few problems of his own that may interest you.”
Mr. Mancuso did not reply to that. He said, instead, “I wish you luck here. It must be nice to be home.”
“It is, except for my Alhambra neighbor.”
He nodded.
As I said, he’d been here twice before—once when he’d offered me a ride home from the city after Frank Bellarosa survived the Giulio’s shooting, and once when he’d given me a ride to Alhambra to show me the result of Susan’s better aim in ending Frank’s life.
On that subject, I needed to clear some of the air from the last time we’d spoken, and I began, “Mrs. Sutter told me that she believes you may harbor some negative feelings toward her.”
He replied, frankly, “I did. But I’ve become more realistic since we last had occasion to interact.”
And, I thought, probably less idealistic. Especially after he’d taken a career hit for something that was not his fault. In the end, Susan had gotten off easier than Special Agent Mancuso, proving once again that life is not fair. I said to him, “I think Mrs. Sutter can be more helpful this time.”
He probably wondered how she could be any less helpful than last time, but he replied, “I’m glad to hear that.” He informed me, “My personal feelings, Mr. Sutter, have never interfered with my professional conduct.”
To keep it honest, I said, “You know that’s not true.” I pointed out, “But that could be a positive thing. For instance, I appreciated your personal concern about my involvement with Frank Bellarosa.” I suggested, “Mrs. Sutter could also have benefited from your advice.”