Authors: Nelson DeMille
I let Susan reply, and she said truthfully, “Not too well. But we’ll speak to them again tomorrow.”
He asked, “Why don’t they want you to get married?”
My turn, so I said, “They don’t like me.”
He pointed out, “You’re not marrying
them
.”
“Good point,” I agreed, “but they see this in a larger context.”
Edward cut through the bullshit, and said, “It’s all about their money.”
“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “it is about their money. But not anymore.”
Susan said to her son, “We—all of us—may experience some financial loss as a result of this marriage.”
“I know that.”
I said to him, “Your mother and I don’t care about us, but we do care about you and Carolyn.”
He informed us, “I spoke to Carolyn about it. We don’t care either.”
Susan and I looked at each other, and she said to Edward, “Let’s see what they say tomorrow.” She reminded him, “You have an early flight.”
He stood and said, “See you in the morning.” Then he asked, “How did they get like that?”
Well, assholes are born, not made.
Susan replied, “I don’t know, but I hope it’s not genetic.”
We all got a laugh out of that, and Edward said good night.
Susan said to me, “I really don’t like discussing this with the children.”
“They’re not children.”
“They are
our
children, John. And I don’t like that my parents are making them into pawns.”
That was the maternal instinct again. She was worried about what would become of Edward and Carolyn if they were thrown out into the cold cruel world and told to fend for themselves, like the other ninety-nine percent of humanity.
I didn’t share Susan’s concerns—they’d be fine, and
they
knew they’d be fine, and I believed we raised them to take care of themselves—but I did understand her thinking, which was, “Why should they live without money if millions are available to them?”
In effect, there was a choice here that most people don’t have—millions, or monthly paychecks?
Well, I’d pick the millions—especially if I got the money because William Stanhope died—but I damn sure wouldn’t kiss anyone’s living ass for the money. However, when it’s about your children, you do smooch a little butt.
Bottom line here was that I was standing between three of the Stanhopes and the Stanhope millions.
But, yes, we’d see what happened tomorrow. I knew what William was going to say to Susan, but I wasn’t absolutely sure what Susan was going to say to William—or what she was going to say to me afterwards.
Susan said, “I’m ready for bed.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not going to watch the news, are you?”
“I am.”
“Why do you want to see that, John?”
“Everyone enjoys seeing the coverage of a Mafia hit.” I actually hadn’t seen a real mob hit on TV since Sally Tries to Whack Frank, in which I had a supporting role.
Susan announced, “I’m going to bed.”
“Good night.”
She gave me a quick kiss and left.
It was 11:00 P.M., so I turned on the TV, and found the local cable channel where I’d seen Jenny Alvarez.
And sure enough, there she was, saying, “Our top story tonight is the brazen gangland murder of Salvatore D’Alessio”—a photograph of a Neanderthal came on the screen—“a reputed capo in one of New York’s organized crime families—”
The caveman’s face was replaced by the lighted exterior of Giovanni’s Ristorante, which was not a bad-looking place. Mancuso seemed to like it, so maybe Susan and I should take Carolyn there. The owner was no doubt upset that his patrons had to witness a man’s head being blown off at dinner, and upset, too, that everyone had left before he could present them with a bill. But he must know that he would make this up in the weeks ahead. New Yorkers love to go to a restaurant where a mob hit has gone down. Look at Giulio’s, for instance, or Sparks, where Paul Castellano had been whacked by Gotti. Still going strong. Free publicity is better than paid advertising, not to mention the restaurant achieving mythic status, and getting an extra bullet or two in the Italian Restaurant Guide.
Well, I’m being silly, so I turned my attention back to the television. There was a lot of police activity out front, and Jenny’s voice was saying, “. . . here at this neighborhood Italian restaurant in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Salvatore D’Alessio was once the underboss to the infamous Frank Bellarosa, who was murdered ten years ago at his palatial Long Island mansion by a woman who was reputed to be his mistress.”
Reputed? Why didn’t Jenny say Susan’s name and show a picture of her? Well, maybe they were afraid of a lawsuit. Right. Susan was Frank Bellarosa’s
killer
, but only his
reputed
mistress. I might even represent Susan if Jenny mentioned her by name as Frank’s mistress or girlfriend. That would be interesting—
Sutter v. Cable News 8, Jenny Alvarez, et al.
John Sutter for the plaintiff. Is it true, Mr. Sutter, that you were screwing Ms. Alvarez, and she dumped you? No, sir, we shook hands and parted as friends.
Oh what tangled webs we weave, when we stick it in and then we leave.
Anyway, Jenny was saying, “Bellarosa himself had been the target of an attempted mob hit, ten years ago, and it is believed that tonight’s victim, Salvatore D’Alessio, had been behind that botched attempt on Bellarosa’s life. And now, Salvatore D’Alessio—known in the underworld as Sally Da-da—has been murdered, and sources close to the investigation are speculating that the man behind this mob hit is Frank Bellarosa’s son, Tony—”
“Anthony! Don’t say Tony.”
There didn’t seem to be a photograph of Anthony available, and Jenny went on a bit as some old footage of Frank Bellarosa came on the screen—Frank on the courthouse steps on the day I’d gotten him sprung on bail—and I actually caught a glimpse of myself. Bad tie.
And at that moment, unfortunately, Susan walked into the family room, looked at Frank Bellarosa on the TV screen, froze, then turned and left without a word.
Well, it
was
a little jarring to see Frank on television, looking good, smoking a cigar, and joking with the press. He hadn’t looked as lively the last time I saw him, in his coffin.
I should have shut off the TV and gone to bed, but this was important—not to mention entertaining.
Jenny was now saying, “So, if these rumors are true, then it appears that, after ten years, some chickens have come home to roost among the organized crime families of New York.”
Also, don’t forget—what you sow, you reap.
She continued, “According to reliable sources in law enforcement, Tony Bellarosa has been missing from his home, his place of business, and his usual haunts for about a week, and he did not attend the Gotti funeral yesterday.”
Then she went on about the apparent power struggle that was developing as a result of the vacuum created by Mr. Gotti’s death, and so forth, which brought her back to Anthony and Uncle Sal, then to Anthony’s father, Frank, and then . . . there I was again, standing next to Frank on the steps of the courthouse. Jenny continued her off-screen reporting, and there was no soundtrack for the film, but I was answering a question that had been asked to me by none other than a younger Jenny Alvarez. I hadn’t aged a day. At that point, Jenny and I were not even friends—in fact, she’d been a ballbuster on the courthouse steps, and I’d taken an immediate dislike to her, and her to me. And then . . . well, hate turned to lust, as it often does.
Jenny was back on the screen, and this was another opportunity for her to mention me by name as the handsome and brilliant attorney for the dead don, whom we’d just seen on the screen. But she wasn’t giving me an on-air mention—just that few seconds of old news footage. Surely she remembered that night at the Plaza. Instead, she reported, “Another interesting angle to this story is that Tony Bellarosa is the
nephew
of the victim, Salvatore D’Alessio. Bellarosa’s mother and D’Alessio’s wife—now his widow—are sisters. So, if these rumors about Tony Bellarosa’s involvement in this gangland slaying are true, then this gives us a glimpse into the ruthless—” and so forth.
Well, I don’t know about ruthless. To be honest, the only difference between me and Anthony in regard to whacking an annoying relative was that Anthony knew who to call to have it done while he was out of town. I wish I knew who to call when I was in London—1–800-MOBCLIP? Just kidding.
Jenny finished her reporting and her commentary, then said to the anchor, “Back to you, Chuck.”
A young anchorman came on the screen, and in what was supposed to be a spontaneous question to his reporter, he asked, “Jenny, what are your sources saying about the motive for this killing?”
Jenny replied, as scripted, “Sources tell me that if Tony Bellarosa was behind this hit, then the obvious motive is revenge for what happened ten years ago when his father, mother, and another couple—”
And she still didn’t mention me by name. Was she protecting me, or torturing me?
Chuck commented on ten years being a long time to wait for revenge, and Jenny explained to him and her viewers about patience in the world of La Cosa Nostra, long memories, and vendetta.
Chuck inquired, “So, do you think this killing will lead to more killings?”
Jenny replied, “It’s quite possible.”
I thought so, too.
Well, it seemed to me that Anthony—formerly Tony—had gotten himself in a pickle—or, worse, a jar of hot pepperoni. I mean, did that idiot—that
mamaluca
—think that no one was going to connect him to the murder of his uncle Sal? Well, obviously, that’s what he
thought
he wanted, as his message to the mob that he’d carried out a family vendetta—but I’m sure he hadn’t wanted to fire up the media and the forces of law and order. Unlike his father, Anthony did not think ahead. Anna said it best. “You don’t
think
, Tony. Your father knew how to
think
.”
Stonato.
Moms know.
And speaking of Anna, how was Anthony going to explain to Mom about having Uncle Sal clipped? Well, for one thing, Anna wouldn’t believe the lies that the police and the news media were making up about her son. She hadn’t even believed that her husband, the martyred St. Frank, had been involved with organized crime. And the same denial applied to her brother-in-law, Sal, and so forth.
Of course, Anna knew all this was true, but she could never admit any of this to herself, or she’d lose her jolly disposition, and her sanity. Still, Salvatore D’Alessio’s funeral was going to be a tense family affair, especially if Anthony showed up, and Marie didn’t play the game that the boys had invented long ago.
Jenny was now talking about Anthony Bellarosa, and it seemed to me that she was winging it. In fact, she said, “Very little is known about Frank Bellarosa’s son, and he seems to have kept a low profile since his father’s death. But now, with his uncle’s death, and his alleged, or rumored, involvement—”
I turned off the television and ate Susan’s leftover cake.
Well, I could give Jenny a little more information about Tony, beginning with his name change.
Anyway, I thought, it was looking better for the Sutters. Stupid Anthony had unwittingly—half-wittedly—unleashed a media storm; the Father’s Day Rubout—and that was good for Susan and me. Also the TV coverage was nothing compared to tomorrow morning’s blood-splattered tabloid photos. Hopefully, before the police arrived at Giovanni’s, someone had taken a few pictures of Salvatore D’Alessio lying on the floor with his head in shreds, and those pictures would be worth a lot of money to some lucky people who had taken their cameras to dinner for Father’s Day photos. And sometimes, the NYPD themselves leaked some gory photographs to the press to show the public that La Cosa Nostra was not really an Italian fraternal organization. That would be a good public relations counterpoint to John Gotti as a man of the people. I could imagine some photographs of Marie splattered with her husband’s blood, brains, and skull. I knew how
that
felt. If nothing else, there’d be some color photos in the tabloids of the post-whack scene—the table, blood on the floor, the vomit. No, no vomit. Blood was okay, but never vomit. Children could see it.
I finished Susan’s cake, then went downstairs and rechecked the doors, windows, and exterior lighting, after which I went upstairs to the bedroom.
Susan was still awake, reading.
I said, “You should get some sleep.”
She didn’t respond. Apparently, she was upset.
I said to her, “Look, there is going to be a lot of TV coverage of this, but I promise you, I won’t look at it again, and we won’t buy any American newspapers in London.”
Again, she didn’t respond.
I said, “It’s good that we’re going to London.”
She nodded, then said, “You see why I went to Hilton Head.”
Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”
She didn’t reply to that.
I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.
As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”
“Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”
She didn’t respond.
To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café . . . where was that?”
“On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”
“Oh, well . . . do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”
“You’re making that up.”
I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but . . .
“Me, too.”
“And thanks for the yacht.”
“We
are
going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”
I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”
Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.