Authors: Nelson DeMille
On that subject, the article also mentioned that Mr. Gotti saw himself as a Caesar. So apparently he tried to combine these two different management styles—dictatorial and cunning. Apparently, too, he’d succeeded to some extent, just as had Frank Bellarosa, who, in addition to being Machiavellian, was also a big fan of Benito Mussolini.
People like this—Italian or otherwise—love power, and they love to wield power. And you can tell where they’re coming from by the role models they choose. Anthony Bellarosa—Little Caesar—however, was, I thought, basically a man with delusions of grandeur, and he was a failed successor to his father’s empire. But this was not my problem—my problem was that he was a dangerous thug who acted on impulse. His instincts, like his father’s, may have been good, because it certainly wasn’t his brains that had kept him alive so long. I recalled that outthinking Frank Bellarosa was like matching wits with a worthy opposing general; outthinking Anthony was like trying to outthink a predatory animal, who has no intellect—just an empty stomach that needs to be filled.
Well, back to John Gotti. The article also mentioned Mr. Gotti’s penchant for two-thousand-dollar Brioni suits. I said to Susan, “I’m going to buy Edward a Brioni suit.”
“Are they good suits?”
“Excellent. About two thousand dollars.” I added, “Handmade in Italy.”
“You should buy one for yourself.”
“Why not? Maybe we’ll get a deal.”
E
dward appeared around 10:00 A.M., and while he was having coffee, Susan made him his favorite breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and heavily buttered biscuits. This is also my favorite breakfast so I said, “I’ll have the same.”
“No you won’t.”
I mean, someone was trying to kill us, so what difference did it make to my longevity if I ate unhealthy foods? What am I missing here?
S
usan had decided to get a car and driver for our city adventure—no waiting in the rain for taxis and no parking hassles—and the car showed up at eleven. It’s true—rich or poor, it’s nice to have money.
Our first stop in Manhattan was the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue, and I asked Susan if her friend Charlie Frick worked there. She didn’t reply, so I don’t know, and I didn’t see her there.
We sucked up one hour and twenty-seven minutes of art, then had a great lunch at La Goulue, one of my favorite restaurants on the Upper East Side.
Edward, deep down inside, is a New Yorker, and most of his friends live in this city, but he’s chosen a career and maybe a life that will keep him on the West Coast. Susan can’t come to grips with this, but if she had the Stanhope fortune, she’d find a way to get Edward back. Ironically, for an investment of only about fifty thousand dollars, I could have asked Anthony to think of a way to speed up her inheritance. That’s really not a nice thought. It’s moot, anyway; I had my chance, but the timing was wrong.
After lunch, the car dropped Edward and me off at Brioni’s on East 52nd, and the ladies stayed with the car to sack and pillage along Madison and Fifth Avenues.
Edward is as fond of shopping as I am, but we did get him a Brioni suit with matching accessories. Edward really didn’t want a two-thousand-dollar suit, but I told him it would make his mother happy, and it was her Amex card, so all it was costing him was some time and a little boredom. The suit would be ready in eight weeks and sent to Los Angeles. In my next life, I want to be Susan Stanhope’s son. Actually, she did tell me to get one for myself, but we needed to start economizing, though Susan hadn’t come to grips with that yet.
Edward and I decided that was enough shopping for one day, and Edward called the car on his cell phone, and we were picked up and delivered to the Yale Club on Vanderbilt Avenue.
We sat in the big main lounge, read the newspapers, talked, and had a few glasses of tomato juice into which, I believe, someone had added vodka.
Susan called Edward’s cell at five, and he said we were having afternoon tea at the Yale Club. He’s a good boy. Chip off the old block.
R
ush-hour traffic in the rain on a Friday was a mess, so we didn’t get home until after 7:00 P.M.
I was shocked to discover that the trunk of the car was filled with boxes and bags, and it took the four of us, plus the driver, to carry them into the house. But before I could make a sarcastic remark, Susan announced, “Carolyn and I bought you a tie.”
Well, I felt just awful about what I almost said, so I did say, “Thank you. I hope you didn’t spend too much.”
I thought I should tell Susan, privately, that she should be storing her acorns for what might be a money famine, but she had as much information as I did on that subject, so maybe that’s what she was doing—storing Armani, Escada, Prada, and Gucci for lean times. Good thinking. Plus, with the Brioni suit, we’d kept the Italian economy in good shape.
I checked for phone messages, and there were several, but none from Mr. Mancuso, who in any case would have called Susan’s cell phone if he had anything important to tell us.
I also checked my e-mail, and there was a message from Samantha that said,
Flying to New York tomorrow. Arriving late afternoon. Meet me at The Mark at seven.
Good hotel, but I didn’t think that was going to work out, so I quickly typed,
The Mafia is trying to kill me, and I’m engaged to be married. Hard to believe, but . . .
There had to be a better way to say that. I deleted and typed,
Dear Samantha, My ex-wife and I have reunited and
—
Susan walked in and asked me, “Who are you e-mailing?”
I pushed delete and said, “My office.”
“Why?”
“I’m resigning.”
“Good.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Let me help,” she offered.
“Well . . .” I looked at my watch. “This could take a while, and we should get to the funeral home.”
“This will take a few minutes.”
I guess the time had come to burn a bridge that I’d intended to leave standing. So, with Susan’s help, I crafted a very nice, thoughtful, and positive letter to my firm, letting them know what a difficult decision this was for me, and expressing my hope that this did not cause them any inconvenience, and so forth, assuring them that I would be in London in a few weeks to gather my personal items, and brief my replacement, and sign whatever paperwork was necessary for my separation from the firm.
Susan suggested, “Tell them you’re getting married.”
“Why?”
“So they understand why you’re not returning.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“They’ll be happy for you.”
“They don’t care. They’re British.”
“Nonsense. Tell them.”
So I announced my good news, which would get to Samantha, via phone or e-mail, within nanoseconds. Well, it was 2:00 A.M. in London so I had some time tonight to e-mail her.
I pressed the send button, and off it went to London. These things should have a one-minute delay so you can reconsider, or at least get your wife or girlfriend out of the room.
Bottom line here was that I had been trying to cover all my bases and play all the angles. But in the final analysis, I needed to take a leap of faith and hope for the best.
If I had to leave Susan, it would not be because I wanted to leave her. It would be because I had to leave her to ensure her future, and the future of our children. It’s a far, far better thing I do, and all that.
Or, quite possibly, she’d make the hard decision for those same reasons. A mother’s instinct is to protect her children, and I understood that.
Susan asked me, “What are you sitting there thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about you and Edward and Carolyn . . . and how good it is that we have this time together.”
“We have the rest of our lives together.”
And that was the other problem.
W
e arrived at Walton’s at 8:15, and as always, on the last night of the viewing, everyone who’d put it off was there, plus there was a large contingent of church ladies from St. Mark’s in attendance.
We went through the usual routine at the coffin—Ethel still looked good—then said hello to the front-row ticket holders, then worked Parlor A again, then checked out the lobby and the sitting room. I had a strong sense of déjà vu.
William and Charlotte were there, though I didn’t get the opportunity to speak to them. Actually, we avoided one another. My mother, too, was there, and I made sure to say hello.
Also there was Diane Knight, Ethel’s hospice nurse, which was nice, but I noticed that I never see the deceased’s attending physician at the funeral home. I guess that could be awkward.
I also spotted Ethel’s accountant, Matthew Miller, and I spoke to him for a minute about getting together for Ethel’s final accounting. I mean, you should not actually do business at the funeral home, but you can make appointments.
Susan’s luncheon companion, Charlie Frick, was also there, and I introduced myself and told her I’d gone to her museum earlier in the day. I let her know, “Nice place. Lots of artwork.” Then I drew her attention to the dreadful inspirational painting in the lobby, and said, “That would look good in the Frick.”
She excused herself and moved off, probably to speak to Susan about me.
I also ran into Judy Remsen, who’d been a good friend of ours in the old days, and she seemed delighted to see me. She already knew our good news and was very happy for us. This is the lady who had caught us in flagrante delicto patio, and I’m sure she remembered that every time she saw me. I didn’t mention the incident of course, but I did say, “Stop by next week and join us for sundowners on the patio.”
“I . . . yes, that sounds wonderful.”
“Call ahead.” I smiled.
She excused herself.
Then I ran into Lester Remsen, Judy’s husband, who had also been a friend as well as my stockbroker. Lester and I had had a falling-out over my bringing Frank and Anna Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner. Susan had also been at the dinner, of course, but she got a pass on that, as she gets a pass on nearly everything. I’m always the bad guy. But, hey, I just suck it up.
Lester offered his professional services if I should need them again. Defense stocks and electronic security were hot at the moment. I said, “Hazmat suits. That’s going to be big.”
I also saw the DePauws, the couple who lived in the house on the hill across from the gates of Alhambra, where the FBI had set up their observation post to photograph cars and guests arriving at Frank’s estate—myself and Susan included—and I asked him if he was still doing that for the FBI.
He said no, and the DePauws excused themselves.
Beryl Carlisle avoided me, and Althea Gwynn snubbed me.
It’s wonderful to be back.
In the lobby, I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings. This is a man who, as I’ve mentioned, is not my favorite man of the cloth, though he seems to be everyone else’s. So maybe it’s me. But I think it’s him.
Anyway, he spotted me, walked over, and said in his pulpit voice, “Good evening!”
“Good evening!” I replied, without, I hope, mimicking him.
“And how have you been, John?” “
“Great.” Until five seconds ago. I inquired, “How have you been?”
“I have been well. Thank you for asking.”
“And Mrs. Hunnings? How has she been?”
“She is well, and I will tell her you asked about her.”
I never understood why his wife hadn’t had an affair. She was actually quite attractive, and she had a little sparkle in her eye.
He asked me, “Do you have a moment?”
“Uh . . . well . . .”
“I would like to speak to you in private.”
Well, I was a little curious, but I also wanted to get to my cocktail. Decisions, decisions. I said, “All right.”
He led me up the stairs of the old Victorian house to a door with a cross on it, which I assumed was reserved for clergy of the Christian faith.
The room had a desk and a grouping of chairs around a table, and we sat at the table.
He began, “First, I want to welcome you home.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you will be rejoining the Saint Mark’s family.”
I guess he meant the congregation. It was hard to follow the newspeak after you’d been gone awhile. Anyway, this was my chance to tell him I’d become a Buddhist, but instead I replied, “I am sure I will.”
He continued, “I’ve heard, of course, that you and Susan have reunited.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“Indeed, it does.” He went on, “I assume you and Susan plan to remarry at Saint Mark’s.”
“That would be fitting.” Do we get the repeat discount?
“Well, then, I hope you and Susan will consider prenuptial counseling.”
I’d already gotten that from William, but I replied, “Well, we’ve been married. To each other.”
“I know that, John, but, if I may be candid, the circumstances of your separation and divorce should be addressed in a pastoral counseling context, which I am happy to provide.”
“Well . . . you know, Father, it’s been so long since we divorced, that I can barely remember what led us to that decision.”
He found that a little hard to believe—and so did I—but he advised, “Speak to Susan about counseling, and please get back to me on that.”
“Will do.”
He made a final pitch and said, “You want to build on a solid foundation, so your house will not crumble again.”
“Good analogy.” I had the uncharitable thought that Father Hunnings just wanted to learn all the inside juicy details of Susan’s affair, her murder of Frank Bellarosa, and maybe even our sex lives since then. I gave myself a sharp mental slap on the face and said, “I appreciate your concern.”
He replied, “I am just doing my job, John, and trying to do God’s work.”
“Right. Well . . . yeah. Good.” I glanced at my watch.
He continued, “And speaking of houses, I understand that you and Susan are living together.”
Who ratted? Well, I knew where this was going, so I replied, “I’m sleeping in a guest room.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.” This was really unbelievable, but you had to put yourself in his shoes, I guess. He had to be able to say he’d brought this up with one of the sinners, and that he’d made his disapproval known. I could almost hear him at the dinner table tonight with his wife—What was her name? Sarah? Really attractive.