Authors: Nelson DeMille
He went off to find Charlotte, who was definitely not in the kitchen scrubbing pots.
I closed the door, and a few minutes later I heard Susan, Charlotte, and William speaking softly in the foyer. Then the front door opened and closed.
A few seconds later, the office door opened and Susan stepped inside. She said, “Should I even ask how it went?”
I looked at her, and I really wanted to tell her that her father was everything I’d always said he was, and more, but that was not really the issue. I said to her, “Well, some good news and some bad news.”
“What is the good news?”
“The good news is that your father offered me one million two hundred thousand dollars to go back to London.”
“What? He did
what
?”
“I just told you.”
She stood there, stunned, I think. Then she looked at me and asked, “What did you tell—? Well, I don’t have to ask that.”
“Of course not. I told him no. I want two million. And that’s the bad news. He won’t budge from a million two hundred thousand.”
She realized I was being facetious, though she wasn’t sure if this was so funny.
She sat on the couch and stared into space, then finally said, “That is outrageous. That is . . . despicable.”
“I thought so, too. I mean, you’re worth a quarter million a year—oh, that’s the other bad news. If you marry me, you’re cut off.”
She looked at me, nodded, and said, “I don’t care.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. You’ve been a bad girl, and your allowance is cut off. Or will be. Also your inheritance.”
Finally, she started to absorb all of this and said to me, “Couldn’t you reason with him?”
“No.” I asked her, “Do you want a drink?”
“No.”
“Well, I do.” I poured myself some brandy, and Susan changed her mind, so I made it two.
We didn’t have anything to toast, so we sipped.
Finally, she said to me, “My mother was . . . well, telling me why I shouldn’t marry you.”
“Anything good?”
She forced a smile and said, “She thinks you’re not in a position to keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”
“Did you tell her I was an animal in bed?”
She smiled for real and replied, “I did tell her we’ve always had a fulfilling sex life.”
“Is she jealous?”
“Maybe.” Susan also revealed, “She hinted that you drink too much.”
We both got a good laugh out of that. I observed, “I only wish I could go one-for-one with either of them.”
I sat next to Susan on the couch, and we held hands and didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, “My father seemed very angry.”
“I was very cordial to him, even after he insulted me with a bribe. I really was, Susan.”
“I believe you.”
“But at the end, I had to threaten him with litigation if he cut you out of their wills.” I added, “The allowance is gone, and even if I had a legal theory to proceed on that, I don’t feel I would be morally justified to pursue it. And I hope you agree.”
“I agree.” She reminded me, “I am now free.”
“Right.” I suggested, “You might want to cut back on your personal trainer.”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“Sorry.” So now I had to decide if I should mention William’s parting shot—the children. But I’d let him do that; Susan needed to hear this from her father. I said to Susan, “I believe he wants to speak to you soon.”
She nodded. “We will speak tomorrow morning. Here. On their way to the airport.”
“Fine. I’ll make myself scarce.”
“Thank you.” She looked at me and asked, “Did he mention the children?”
“I believe he will mention that to you tomorrow.”
She nodded.
Susan did not look happy for someone who’d just gotten her freedom, and to be honest, I couldn’t blame her. Freedom is scary.
So, to wrap this up, I said, “Look, if it comes down to me or—”
“John, shut the fuck up.”
That took me completely by surprise. Where did she learn to swear like that? It sounded funny with her patrician accent. I asked, “Could you clarify that?”
“Sorry.” She laughed. Then she put her head in her hands and tears ran down her cheeks. She said, “Damn it.”
I put my arm around her and squeezed her tight. I said, “We will be fine, Susan.” I reminded her, “We knew where this was headed.”
She wiped her face with her hands and said, “You knew. I didn’t believe it.”
I gave her my handkerchief and suggested, “You have to be honest with yourself. You
knew
.”
She nodded. “Those . . . I just try so hard with them. How can they be so . . . heartless?”
I didn’t reply.
She continued, “It’s not the money. Really, it’s not. I just don’t understand how they can be so . . . can’t they see how happy we are together?”
I really didn’t want to interfere with this cathartic moment, but I had to say, “
That
is what they don’t like.” I reminded her, “Your father has never liked me, and, to be honest, the feeling is mutual. But unlike me, he’s more driven by hate than by love. And there is nothing we can do about that.”
She nodded, wiped her eyes with my handkerchief, took a deep breath, and said, “All right. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. And I won’t give in to him. There’s nothing more he can threaten me with . . . except the children’s money. So, we need to speak to the children.”
“Right.”
She asked me, “Do you think I should speak to Peter?”
“I would advise you not to. But that’s your decision.” I’m going to sue the bastard if I have to.
“All right . . .” She turned and put her head down on the arm of the sofa, and put her feet in my lap. I took off her shoes, and she wiggled her toes. She asked me, “Did you have a good Father’s Day, aside from blowing a million-dollar deal?”
“I did. I really did. I’m starting to like my mother.”
“Good. She loves you in her own way.”
“She certainly does.” I suggested, “Maybe we should rethink the yacht.”
“I guess we should.”
“How about a rowboat?”
“Can’t afford it.” She stretched, yawned, and said, “This has been an exhausting day. But you know what? I feel like someone has taken a thousand-pound weight off my back.”
“Actually, you’re about a quarter million dollars a year lighter.”
She stayed quiet a moment, then asked, “Were you . . . surprised when he offered you money?”
“To tell you the whole truth, he offered that to me the first night they were here.”
“He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, why ruin the week?”
“You need to tell me everything in a timely manner.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“How about sex?”
With that opening, I should have told her that her father tried to save me from marrying a loose woman, who happened to be his daughter. But there are rules, spoken and unspoken, and that would really cross the line and serve no purpose other than making Susan think even less of her father than she already did. And yet I despised him so much, I actually thought about telling her. But that would raise other issues that didn’t need to be part of our future.
“John? Hello? Sex?”
“Didn’t we do it this morning?”
“No, you had sex with a seaman’s wife.”
“Right.”
I stood, locked the door, and took off my blazer.
Susan slipped off her panties, hiked up her skirt, and whispered, “Hurry, before my father comes home.”
So, recalling those half-clothed quickies we used to have in Stanhope Hall before we were married, I stripped from the waist down and lay on top of her, and she rested her legs on my shoulders.
One of the joys of sex with Susan Stanhope was knowing that I was also figuratively fucking her father. But this time, it was just Susan and me in the room, and it was great.
S
usan and I had fallen asleep on the couch, and I was awakened by the ringing phone. It was dark outside, and the only light in the office was from a floor lamp that had been on when William and I had our talk.
I got up and made my way to the desk. The Caller ID showed Restricted, and the desk clock showed 9:32, though it seemed later.
I picked up the phone and said, “Sutter.”
Mr. Mancuso said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutter.”
I could hear noise in the background, men and women talking, but I had the feeling he wasn’t in his office or at home.
He said, “I have some news for you.”
I thought maybe they’d found Anthony eating spaghetti at Mom’s, and I said, “Good news, I hope.”
“News.”
I glanced back at Susan, who was stirring. I said to Mancuso, “Let me get Susan.” I put the phone on hold and said to her, “It’s Mancuso.”
She sat up, and I put the phone on speaker, then said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’re here.”
He said, “Good evening, Mrs. Sutter.”
She stood beside me and replied, “Good evening.”
He began by saying, “Just to let you know, Anthony Bellarosa did not show himself at his father’s grave, but his wife and kids did, and so did the rest of the family, including Anthony’s brothers and their wives and kids. They all had dinner at Anna’s house.”
Poor Megan. I knew, of course, by the tone of his voice that there was more news.
Mancuso continued, “At about 7:45 this evening, Salvatore D’Alessio was having dinner in a restaurant with his wife, Marie, and his two sons, who had flown in from Florida for Father’s Day.”
Well, I knew where this was going. I glanced at Susan, and she, too, knew what Mr. Mancuso was going to tell us.
He continued, “It is the D’Alessios’ habit, apparently, to dine at this restaurant, Giovanni’s, in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, near their house.” He added, “They always go there on Father’s Day.”
I observed, “That is not a good habit.”
“No,” he agreed. He did add, however, “It’s a nice old family restaurant. In fact, I’m there now.”
I didn’t ask him why he was there because I knew why, and I was fairly certain he wasn’t having dinner with the D’Alessios.
Mr. Mancuso returned to his subject and said, “So, at about 7:45, as the D’Alessios were having dessert, two men entered the crowded restaurant wearing topcoats, and they walked directly to the D’Alessio table. According to several witnesses, both men raised sawed-off double-barreled shotguns from under their coats, and one of them said, ‘Happy Father’s Day, Sally,’ then fired a single shot at point-blank range into Salvatore D’Alessio’s face.”
Susan took a step backwards, as though she’d been hit with the blast, and she slumped onto the couch.
I said, “Hold on.” I put the phone on hold and asked her, “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
I slipped on my shorts and pants, then took the phone off speaker, sat in the chair, and picked up the receiver. I said to Mancuso, “It’s just me now.”
“All right . . . so that’s the news.”
I took a deep breath, then said, “Well . . . I guess I owe you some money.”
“I never got around to placing that bet for you, Mr. Sutter.”
“Okay . . .” I sat there and glanced again at Susan, who didn’t seem to notice or mind that she couldn’t hear Mancuso. I asked him, “Anyone else hurt?”
“No. It was professional.” He suggested, “You can see it on the news.”
I asked, “Can you give me a preview? Or something I won’t see on the news?”
“All right . . .” Mr. Mancuso gave me his professional opinion of the hit. “So, it is Sunday. Father’s Day. And Salvatore D’Alessio is out to dinner with his family. And D’Alessio is very much old-school, and he thinks there are still some rules that won’t be broken. But he’s not stupid—well, actually, he is, but anyway, assuming it was D’Alessio who tried to have Frank Bellarosa killed at Giulio’s in the presence of Frank’s wife and two upstanding citizens, then D’Alessio understands that he himself has broken the rules. And he knows that Anthony does not play by many rules anyway. So, D’Alessio does have one bodyguard with him outside of Giovanni’s, and D’Alessio is wearing a Kevlar vest under his Big and Tall Man suit, and he’s also carrying a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson, and he’s got his family with him so he’s not expecting trouble, but he’s prepared for it.”
I commented, “Well, he should have expected it and been better prepared.”
“Correct. The bodyguard, who Marie D’Alessio described to us as their driver—though they walked to the restaurant—took a longer walk, and seems to have disappeared. As for the Kevlar vest, apparently the two shooters knew or anticipated this, so the first blast was aimed at D’Alessio’s face.” He reminisced, “Frank Bellarosa got very lucky that night, but Mr. D’Alessio’s assailants were not going to repeat the mistake of Mr. Bellarosa’s assailants.”
“No. That would be stupid,” I agreed.
Mr. Mancuso continued, “Well, that single blast to D’Alessio’s face knocked him onto the floor, whereupon one more shot was fired into his head, though he was undoubtedly already fatally wounded, according to what the medical examiner is telling me.” He added, “That second shot was . . . well, a personal message.” He explained, “There is no undertaker who could rebuild that head and face for an open casket.”
Too much information.
Mr. Mancuso continued, “As these two shots were fired, the second assailant pointed a shotgun at Marie D’Alessio’s head and shouted, ‘Nobody move or she dies,’ so the two sons sat there, frozen, according to witnesses, but Marie was screaming. Then the two men left and got into a waiting car.” He concluded, “From the time the two men walked in to the time they walked out was about fifteen seconds.” He added, “Marie, when she looked at her husband, fainted. One of the sons threw up, and the other son became hysterical.” He said, as if to himself, “Happy Father’s Day.”
I nodded. Well, that certainly put my stressful day with Harriet and the Stanhopes into perspective.
I tried to picture this scene of a restaurant on Father’s Day, filled with families, and two men coming through the door, and before anyone even knows what’s happening, one of them blows Salvatore D’Alessio’s head off, after wishing him a happy Father’s Day. What was the D’Alessio family doing in that few seconds before Sal’s head and their world exploded? Talking? Laughing? Passing the pastry? Did Salvatore D’Alessio know, in that second before the blast, that it was over for him?