Authors: Nelson DeMille
I said to Susan, “That was nice. It looked like everyone was having a good time.”
Susan agreed, “That
was
very nice.”
“Your parents seemed a bit quiet.”
“They were tired.”
“I think we’re out of gin.”
“I’ll get some tomorrow.” She looked at me, smiled, and said, “This is like old times.”
“It is.” But it wasn’t.
We hugged and kissed, which made Sophie smile, and Susan said to me, “I’m so happy, John, but also sad.”
“I know.”
“But I know we can make up for all the lost years.”
“We’ll stay up two hours later every night.”
“And never take each other for granted, and call twice a day, and not work late at the office, and no more stupid nights out with the girls—”
“Do you mean me or you?”
“Be serious. And we’re going to have your mother for dinner once a week—”
“Hold on.”
“And meet Carolyn in the city for dinner and a show, and fly to L.A. once a month to see Edward.”
“You forgot Hilton Head.”
“And we’ll do that, too. And you’ll see, John, that my parents will accept you. They’ll never love you the way I love you, but they will come to respect you, and when they see how happy I am, they’ll be fine.”
I didn’t reply.
She said, “Admit that tonight wasn’t as bad as you predicted.”
“It got a little rocky there over cocktails, and maybe we didn’t have to hear about Dan so much, and I could have done without the prying questions, or the lecture on working hard for forgiveness . . . but other than that, it was a pleasant reunion.”
“But it could have been worse.” She predicted, “Tomorrow will be better.”
“And Monday will be even better than that.”
She kissed me and said, “I’m going up.”
“I’ll check the doors.”
Susan went upstairs, and I checked all the doors and windows and made sure the outdoor lights were on. Then I said good night to Sophie, got the carbine out of the hall closet, and went up to the master bedroom.
Susan was reading in bed, and she glanced at the rifle, but didn’t comment.
I’d loaded the shotgun earlier with the heavy game buckshot in one barrel and a deer slug in the other, and I took the gun from my closet, and with a weapon in each hand I asked Susan, “Would you rather sleep with Mr. Beretta or Mr. Winchester?”
She continued reading her magazine and said, “I don’t care.”
I leaned the carbine against her nightstand and rested the shotgun against my side of the bed. I said to her, “A full-perimeter security system will be in place in a week or so.”
She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, “Did you have a chance to look at the floral arrangements?”
“I did.”
“Okay. So?”
“I saw it.”
I said, “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” I explained, “I mentioned Ethel’s illness when I was there Sunday, and Anna remembered her. And Anthony isn’t even home. So I think that was just a nice gesture from Anna and Megan.”
“Or maybe a thank-you for slashing the painting.”
I thought about that and said, “I’m sure Anthony saw that first and got rid of it.”
Again, she didn’t reply. So I got undressed and slipped on my Yale T-shirt.
Susan inquired, “Am I going to have to see that every night?”
“It’s who I am.”
“God help you.”
I guess that was a joke. But it was close to blasphemy.
I got into bed and read one of the city tabloids that Sophie brought with her every morning to improve her English, which I think explained some of her problems with the language.
Anyway, I was specifically looking for an article about John Gotti, and I found a small piece that reported that Mr. Gotti’s body had arrived from Missouri and was lying inside a closed coffin at the Papavero Funeral Home in the Maspeth section of Queens. The article seemed to suggest that there was no public viewing of the body, and that funeral plans were indefinite because the Diocese of Brooklyn had denied Mr. Gotti a public funeral Mass.
That seemed a little inconsistent with the forgiving message of Christ, but, hey, it was their church and they could do what they wanted. Still, it struck me as a badly thought-out public relations move, and likely to backfire and cause some public sympathy for John Gotti.
More importantly to me, it seemed as though there wasn’t going to be a long wake and a Mass, so Anthony Bellarosa might not feel the need to surface in public this week. Maybe I should send an e-mail to the Brooklyn Diocese explaining that I, the FBI, and the NYPD really wanted to see all the
paesanos
who showed up at the wake and the funeral Mass. What’s wrong with this cardinal? Didn’t he see
The Godfather
?
Anyway, future plans for Mr. Gotti’s mortal remains and his immortal soul were on hold, awaiting, I guess, further negotiations. Maybe somebody should offer a big contribution to the diocese. Maybe somebody did, and the cardinal was holding out for more.
Frank Bellarosa, incidentally, had no such problems. I was sure that his soul had as many black spots on it as Mr. Gotti’s did, but Frank thought ahead. And I think, too, he had a premonition of his approaching death, though not the way it actually happened.
I recalled very clearly that the day after our Mafia theme party at the Plaza, Frank and I, with Lenny and Vinnie and a big black Cadillac, crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, where Frank had grown up. We went to his boyhood church, Santa Lucia, and had coffee with three elderly Italian priests who told us how difficult it was to maintain the old church in a changing neighborhood, and so forth. Bottom line on that, Frank wrote a check for fifty large, and I guess the check cleared because when Frank’s time came—I glanced at Susan—a few months later, there was no problem having his funeral Mass at Santa Lucia.
But times change, and the Catholic Church had apparently gotten tired of providing funeral Masses for the less desirable sheep in its flock, who were, of course, the people who most needed the sacrament.
I thought, too, of Ethel’s wake at Walton’s, and her upcoming Saturday funeral service at St. Mark’s, presided over by the Reverend Hunnings, and then her interment in the Stanhopes’ private cemetery. Ethel Allard’s death was not going to make national news the way John Gotti’s had, or Frank Bellarosa’s before him.
This makes sense, of course, even if it doesn’t seem fair; if you live large, you die large. But if there
is
a higher authority, who asks questions at the gate, and examines your press clippings, then that’s where things are sorted out.
Susan said, “Good night,” and turned off her bedside lamp.
I read the tabloids for a while longer, then kissed my sleeping beauty, patted my shotgun, and turned off my light.
T
hursday morning dawned gray and drizzly. I was hoping for good weather so the Stanhopes could go out and play five rounds of golf.
Susan, perfect hostess and loving daughter, was already downstairs, and I noticed that the arsenal had been put away somewhere, so as not to upset any houseguests or staff who might want to make our beds or clean the bathroom. I really needed to make Sophie comfortable with weapons. Maybe I’d teach her the Manual of Arms, and the five basic firing positions.
I showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where Susan had a pot of coffee made and a continental breakfast laid out on the island.
We kissed and hugged, and I inquired, “Are your parents taking a run?”
“They haven’t come down yet, but I heard them stirring.”
“Should I bring some martinis up to them?”
She ignored that—and I don’t blame her—and said, “I checked my e-mail, and Carolyn will be in on the 6:05 train, and she’ll take a taxi from the station.” She then filled me in on Edward’s itinerary and a few other things I needed to know, and I was happy to hear that we were going to skip the afternoon viewing at Walton’s. I’m sure Ethel would have liked to skip her entire funeral, but she had to be there, and we didn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t notice.
Anyway, I poured coffee for myself and for Susan, who urged me to share her vitamins, which I politely declined. I did, however, sink my teeth into a granola muffin.
So we sat at the table, reading the three tabloids that Sophie had gone out to buy, and I saw that Mr. Gotti was still in limbo at Papavero Funeral Home. The coffin was still closed, and only the family was allowed to visit. There was, however, some talk of a
private
funeral Mass in the chapel at the cemetery, by invitation only, date, time, and place to be determined. Well, that was a move in the right direction. Maybe the Brooklyn Diocese caught some flak from La Cosa Nostra Anti-Defamation League. I wondered, too, if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio had been invited.
I stood and went to the wall phone, and Susan asked, “Who are you calling?”
“Felix Mancuso.”
“Why?”
“To get an update.” I dialed Mr. Mancuso’s cell phone, and he answered. I said, “Hi, John Sutter.”
“Good morning.”
“And to you. Look, I don’t want to be a pest, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Anthony’s whereabouts or any news I can use?”
He replied, “I would have called you. But I’m glad you called.” He informed me, “I did get your message about your chance encounter with Bellarosa’s driver, Tony Rosini—that’s his last name—and we’re following up on that.”
That was about as much as I was going to get out of Felix Mancuso, and I didn’t want to pursue this with Susan in the room, so I told him something he didn’t know. “I was at the wake last night of Ethel Allard, whom I told you about, and one of the floral arrangements there—a really nice spray of white lilies—had a card signed from Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.”
Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “His wife and his mother’s names are on the card. So I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
That was my thought, too, and I was glad to have it confirmed. But to fully appreciate the underworld subtlety of this gesture, I asked, “Please explain.”
So he explained, “Well, had it been signed with just Anthony’s name, then he was sending a message to you, and to your wife.”
“It wasn’t our wake.”
“Well, that’s the message.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“You know.” He advised me, “Put it out of your mind.”
“Okay.” I was really glad I had Felix Mancuso to do cultural interpretations for me. I asked, “You got my message about Amir Nasim putting in a full security system here?”
“I did. That’s good for everyone.”
“Well, it’s not good for Iranian or Italian hit men.”
“No, it’s not good for them.”
I asked, “Did you urge Nasim to do that?”
Mr. Mancuso replied, “He came to his own conclusions.”
“Okay . . . but is this threat to him real?”
“He has enemies.”
There was no use pursuing that, so I updated him, “Susan’s parents have arrived and are in the house.”
“Have you told them about your concerns?”
“No. We’re telling them that this security has to do with Nasim.”
“All right. No use alarming them.”
I said, “So you suggest that they stay elsewhere.”
“No. I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I’ll take that up with Mrs. Sutter.”
After a few seconds, Mr. Mancuso chuckled and said, “You should work for us.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass that on.”
He informed me, “I had a very nice talk with Mrs. Sutter yesterday.”
“She said.”
He continued, “I think she understands the situation, and she’s alert without being alarmed.”
“Good. Did you tell her I want a dog?”
He chuckled again, and replied, “I’ve been asking my wife to get a dog for twenty years.”
“No one is trying to kill you.”
“Actually, they are.” He added, “But that’s part of my job, and not part of yours.”
“I hope not.”
He said, “I’m impressed with Mrs. Sutter.”
“Good. Me, too.” I added, “And she with you.”
“Good. Well, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. I was reading in the tabloids about John Gotti and the Brooklyn Diocese and all that. Did you see that?”
“I did.”
“So, how does this affect Anthony’s possible appearance at the wake and the funeral?”
“Well, there is no public wake, so all of Mr. Gotti’s friends and associates got a pass on that. But there will be a small, private funeral Mass at about noon in the chapel at Saint John’s Cemetery in Queens—that’s sort of the Mafia Valhalla—on this Saturday. So we’ll see who surfaces there.”
The newspapers hadn’t said anything about the time, place, or date, but I guess Special Agent Mancuso had better sources than the
New York Post
. I said, “Coincidentally, I’m going to Mrs. Allard’s funeral service and burial on Saturday here in Locust Valley. So I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to make John Gotti’s send-off.”
“I don’t think you’d be invited, Mr. Sutter.”
“Actually, I was. By Anthony.”
“Really? Well, I’ll be there, as an uninvited guest, and if I see anyone there who you know, I’ll speak to them on your behalf.”
“Thank you. And please call me.”
“I will.”
I said to him, “Speaking of the dead, Anna Bellarosa told me that she and her three sons visit dead Dad’s grave every Father’s Day.” I glanced at Susan, who had been listening to my conversation, but now went back to the newspaper. I continued, “So that may be a good time and place to look for Anthony.”
Mr. Mancuso replied, “Good thought. We’ll also double the stakeout at Bellarosa’s house and his mother’s house in Brooklyn on Father’s Day.”
It
would
be good, I thought, if Anthony felt he needed to be at his father’s grave on Father’s Day—maybe to get inspired, or maybe to avoid getting yelled at by Mom. And of course there’d be the dinner at his house, or Mom’s house. But Anthony really wasn’t stupid enough to go home or to Mom’s—but he
might
go to the cemetery. I reminded Mr. Mancuso, “Santa Lucia Cemetery.”
“I know. I was there.” He stayed silent a moment, then he was thoughtful enough to remind me, “You went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral Mass and burial.”