Authors: Nelson DeMille
W
e spent a few lazy hours of a rainy Saturday afternoon in the upstairs family room, reading and listening to music.
I went downstairs at 4:00 P.M. to ask Sophie to bring us coffee and pastry, then I went into the office to check my e-mail.
There was no reply from my law firm to my Friday night resignation letter, but I knew I’d hear from them Monday.
There was, however, a reply to my letter to Samantha. Bottom line, she was not happy. In fact, she was pissed.
She pointed out, quite correctly, that I’d not called, not written, and had generally left her in the dark until I dropped the bombshell. She also said she was hurt, devastated, and deeply wounded. It was a really well-written letter for an e-mail, and she’s very much a lady and didn’t use words like “shithead,” “asshole,” or even “fuck you.” I mean, that was what she was saying, but she said it in a more genteel way.
Well, I felt awful, and I wished I could have delivered my bad news to her in person or at least by phone—she deserved better than an e-mail—but the situation had gotten away from me, and I’d done the best I could, considering her imminent arrival and what was going on here.
I wasn’t going to respond to her letter now, but I would speak to her by phone, or maybe even in London, and if she really wanted an explanation, I’d give her the whole story. Most likely, however, she never wanted to hear from me again. I wondered if she’d know if I got whacked. I guess she would from my firm, who’d be annoyed that I hadn’t come in to take care of my out-processing.
Anyway, I deleted the letter in case the FBI went through my e-mail posthumously. I wouldn’t want Felix Mancuso to think I’d been a cad.
I went back to the family room, and Sophie brought up coffee and pastry.
Susan said to me, “You’re very quiet.”
I replied, truthfully, “I took care of that business in London.”
“About time,” she said, and went back to her magazine.
At 6:00 P.M., I turned on the TV and found a local news station that was leading off with the John Gotti funeral.
Susan looked up from her magazine and asked, “Do we have to watch that?”
“Why don’t you get ready for Elizabeth’s open house?”
Susan stood and said, “If you hurry, we can keep our six-game winning streak going.”
So, sex or another funeral? I said, “Five minutes.”
She left, and I turned my attention to the television, which showed an aerial view of the Gotti funeral procession, taken earlier in the day from a hovering helicopter.
The female helicopter reporter was saying, “The procession is slowing down in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, a middle-class Queens neighborhood, with John Gotti’s modest home in such contrast to the man himself, who was far from modest.”
Not a bad observation—a little hokey, but point made.
She continued her spontaneous reporting over the sound of the helicopter blades, “John Gotti was a man who, to many, was larger than life. The Teflon Don, who no charges could stick to.”
To whom no charges could stick. This was
not
BBC.
She continued, “You can see the hundreds of people who’ve come out on this rainy day—friends and neighbors, maybe out of curiosity, maybe to pay their respects to their neighbor . . .”
Well, at least one neighbor wasn’t there to pay his respects; he was dead.
She went on, returning to the subject of Mr. Gotti as a bon vivant, and said, “He was also called the Dapper Don because of his Italian, handmade thousand-dollar suits.”
A thousand? Did I get taken on that Brioni at two thousand? No. That’s what they cost. Maybe Gotti got the celebrity gangster discount. I should have mentioned Anthony’s name at Brioni’s.
The lady in the helicopter said, “The procession is picking up speed now, and they will be heading to Ozone Park, where John Gotti had his headquarters—the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, but really the headquarters of his criminal empire.”
Really?
The aerial view pulled away to show the long line of vehicles moving through the gray drizzle—the hearse, the twenty or so flower cars piled with floral arrangements, and the twenty or more black stretch limousines, in one of which was Salvatore D’Alessio, though apparently not Anthony Bellarosa.
I looked for Mr. Mancuso’s gray car among the dozens that were following the black limousines, and I actually saw a gray sedan with all its windows open, and arms waving to the crowd. I guess that’s FBI humor.
I heard Susan call, “John!”
I called back, “This is important.”
“You’re going to miss something more important if you don’t get in here.”
“Coming!”
I was about to turn off the TV, but then the scene switched back to the studio, and the news anchor guy said, “Thank you, Sharon, reporting earlier today from our Eye in the Sky helicopter. We’ll have more footage of the John Gotti funeral after we hear this report on the life of John Gotti from our city news reporter, Jenny Alvarez.”
Who?
And then there she was on the screen. My old . . . fling. She looked great with TV makeup . . . maybe a little orange . . . but still very pretty, with a nice big smile.
Jenny said, “Thank you, Scott. Those were amazing shots of the funeral cortège, taken earlier today, as the body of John Gotti was laid to rest at Saint John’s—”
“John Sutter!”
“Be right there.”
Jenny was saying, “One of the pallbearers today was Mr. Gotti’s lawyer, Carmine Caputo, who we interviewed after the burial.”
Mr. Caputo’s face appeared on the screen, and he took a few questions from a reporter who looked like he was about sixteen years old. Mr. Caputo, old pro that he was, did not answer a single question, but used the opportunity to eulogize his client—family man, father, husband, good neighbor—well, except that one time—good friend— except when he had Paul Castellano whacked—and a generous contributor to many worthwhile causes, including, I hoped, Mr. Caputo’s law firm. I hate it when clients die without paying their bills, as Frank had done to me. But Mr. Caputo seemed sincere in his affection for Mr. Gotti, so he’d been paid.
Jenny came back on the screen, and I thought for sure she was going to make the segue to the last big Mafioso funeral she’d covered—that of don Frank Bellarosa—and mention Mr. Bellarosa’s upper-crust lawyer, John Sutter. This was her opportunity to defend me again and say, “If Carmine Caputo could be at John Gotti’s funeral, why was everyone so fucking bent up that John Sutter went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral? Huh? And John didn’t carry the coffin, for God’s sake.” Then film footage of me would come on the screen, and when the camera returned to Jenny, she’d be wiping her eyes and saying, “John? Are you out there?”
“John!”
“Coming!”
Jenny, however, did not mention any of that, and I was . . . well, hurt.
I was also sad that she’d gone from network news to this rinky-dink local cable show. Maybe she took to drink after we broke up.
Jenny, who knew her Mafia lore, was saying, “Saint John’s Cemetery is known as the Mafia Valhalla and holds the remains of such underworld luminaries as Lucky Luciano, Carlo Gambino, and Aniello Dellacroce, the Gambino family underboss—and now John Gotti, the boss of bosses . . .”
I watched her as she looked straight into the camera, as though she were looking at me, and I
knew
she was thinking about me. I also noticed a wedding ring on her left hand. Oh well.
I turned off the TV and nearly ran into the bedroom.
Susan was at her makeup table and said, “You’re too late.”
I got undressed, fell into bed, and put a pillow under my butt.
She glanced at me and commented, “Well . . .”
E
lizabeth Allard Corbet’s house was a big old rambling colonial located in the hills of Mill Neck, near Oyster Bay.
We parked on the heavily treed street and walked toward the house. The sky was clearing, and it looked as though tomorrow was going to be a good day, at least weather-wise.
A small card on Elizabeth’s door said,
Enter
, so we did.
It was about 7:30, and the large foyer was already filled with people. As is my custom, I said hello to the first guy I saw and asked, “Where’s the bar?”
He pointed. “Sunroom.”
I took Susan in tow, and we made our way through the living room into a sunroom on the side of the house where two bartenders were helping people deal with their grief.
Drinks in hand—vodka tonics—Susan and I waded into the maelstrom.
I spotted a few people I recognized from the funeral home or the burial service, but mostly the crowd seemed to be made up of couples who were younger than us, probably friends and neighbors of the Corbets—as opposed to friends of the deceased. I didn’t see the Stanhopes and didn’t expect to. Neither did I see Father Hunnings. Maybe they were all still in Father Hunnings’ office discussing me and Susan. These people should get a life.
I didn’t see my mother either. Maybe she was in on the meeting. In fact, maybe they’d asked other people to come and give testimony against me—like Amir Nasim (Mr. Sutter is a bigot), Charlie Frick (He’s a philistine), Judy Remsen (He’s a pervert), Althea Gwynn (He’s a boor), Beryl Carlisle (He’s impotent) . . . maybe even Samantha (He’s a scoundrel) flew in from London. Possibly, they were now forming a lynch mob. But my mother would tip me off. She loved me, unconditionally.
Susan announced, “There’s no one here whom we know.”
“They’re all plotting against me in Hunnings’ office.”
“I think you need another drink.”
“One drink, then we’re leaving.”
“Fine. But you should speak to Elizabeth if possible.”
We wandered through the living room and into the dining room, where there was a buffet laid out, and I noted a huge liver pâté, oozing fat.
Susan said, “You don’t want that. Have some cut vegetables.”
“Choking hazard.”
We moved into a large family room at the rear of the house, but other than Tom Junior and Betsy, there was no one there that we recognized.
Susan said, “This is a big house for Elizabeth and two kids who don’t live here.”
I thought it best not to mention my guest room, but I did say, “Must be lots of storage space in the basement.”
“What made you think of that?”
“Well . . . most of that stuff from the gatehouse was brought here.”
She nodded absently, thinking about something else.
Meanwhile, I was thinking that I could have been very comfortable here. I mean, I was happy beyond belief that I was with Susan again, but that was not a done deal—though in her mind it was. But in the days and weeks ahead, she’d have to face some hard realities, and harder choices when Mom and Pop laid it on the line for her.
She would, I was certain, choose me over them and their money, and if the children’s money was also at stake, we’d have a family council, and I would still be the winner over Grandpa and Grandma.
But I wasn’t going to let that happen. And I wouldn’t make a big deal of it; I’d just disappear. Well, first I’d kick William in the nuts. That’s the least I should get out of this.
Susan asked me, “Could you live here?”
“Live . . . where?”
“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t move from Stanhope Hall and get away from the memories, from Nasim, from . . . everything there.”
I didn’t reply immediately, then I said, “That is totally your decision.”
“I want you to tell me how you feel.”
Why is it always
feel
with women? How about, “Tell me what you
think
”?
“John?”
“I’m not completely in touch with my feelings on that subject. I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Elizabeth wants to sell, so let’s think about it.”
That was a step in the right direction away from Stanhope Hall. I agreed, “Let’s see how we feel.”
She nodded and observed, “There are people on the patio. Let’s go outside.”
So we walked through the family room, and stopped to say hello to Tom Junior and Betsy, and we discovered that their father and Laurence had gone back to the city, but the kids were joining them tomorrow for Sunday brunch in SoHo. That’s what I’d be doing if I moved into the city by myself.
I said, “There’s Elizabeth. We’ll say hello, then you need to excuse yourself, so I can speak to her about that letter if I think it’s appro-priate.”
She nodded, and we walked over to Elizabeth, who was standing with a group of people in the center of the large patio.
We all kissed, and Elizabeth introduced us to her friends, one of whom was a younger guy who I immediately sensed was single, horny, and sniffing around our friend and hostess. His name was Mitch, and he looked a little slick to me—trendy clothes, coiffed hair, buffed nails, and a phony smile. Capped teeth, too. I did not approve of Mitch, and I hoped that Elizabeth didn’t either.
Susan said to Elizabeth, “That was a beautiful funeral service and a moving burial rite.”
Elizabeth replied, “Thank you both so much for all you’ve done.”
And so forth.
Then Susan excused herself, and I hesitated, then said to Elizabeth, “This may not be a good time, but I need about five minutes to discuss something that’s come up.”
She looked at me, and she knew what this was about. She could have put it off, but she said to her guests, “John is the attorney for Mom’s estate. He wants to tell me where she buried the cash.”
Everyone got a chuckle out of that, and Elizabeth and I went into the house and she led me to a small library and closed the door.
I said to her, “This is a very nice house.”
“Too big, too old, too much upkeep.” She added with a smile, “Tom did all the decorating.” She opened a liquor cabinet and said, “Let me freshen your drink.”
“I’m all right.”
“Well, I need one.” She poured gin or vodka from a decanter into her glass.
I asked her, “How are you holding up?”
She stirred her drink with her finger, shrugged, and said, “All right. Tomorrow won’t be so good.”
“No. But time does heal.”
“I know. She had a good life.”
I could have slid right from that to the letter, but I sensed that we needed another minute of small talk, and I said, “I really enjoyed Tom’s company.”