He was still laughing as he said, “Hey, I got to tell my wife that one. Okay, look, Mr. Sutter, I want you to know I got no hard feelings about the other thing. Business is business, and personal is personal.”
“That’s true.’’ I looked at Susan, who was reading the local non-newspaper at the kitchen table. I said to Bellarosa, “My wife and I would like to thank you for your help in this and for signing the variance petition.”
“Hey, no problem. I noticed that thing was in your wife’s name.”
I hesitated, then replied, “This is her property. My estate is in the shop for repairs.”
Ha, ha, ha. I hoped he was writing these down. Then, being about fifty-percent certain the phone was tapped, and Mr. Mancuso or someone like him was listening in, I said distinctly, “If the job goes over cost, I insist on paying the difference. I will not accept a low bid, even as a personal favor, Mr. Bellarosa, because you owe me no favors, and I owe you no favors, and it would be good if we didn’t get into owing favors.”
“Mr. Sutter, you gave me some good advice the other day. I don’t see no bill, so that was a favor. I’m repaying the favor.”
I knew that I should watch my words, not only because of Mr. Mancuso, but because of Mr. Frank Bellarosa, who, like myself, makes his living with the spoken word, and who would not hesitate to use anything I said against me later. I asked him, “Are we all evened up on favors?”
“Sure. If you let me keep the horse shit for my garden. Hey, I got a calling card—NYNEX. But I don’t understand your calling card. I’m looking at it. What’s it do?”
“It’s . . . it’s hard to explain. . . .’’ By now, of course, I was sorry I had played my silly joke with Dominic. But Susan actually started it. I said, “It’s like a . . . like a handshake.”
There was another silence as he processed this. He said, “Okay. My best regards to your wife, and you have a good day, Mr. Sutter.”
“And you, too, Mr. Bellarosa.’’ I hung up.
Susan looked up from her newspaper. “What is like a handshake?”
“A calling card.”
She made a face. “That’s not quite it, John.”
“Then
you
explain it to him.’’ I remained standing and picked up my coffee mug from the table. “I don’t like this.”
“You made the coffee.”
“This
situation
, Susan. Are you mentally attending?”
“Don’t get snotty with me. You use too many pronouns and too few antecedents. I’ve told you that.”
I felt a headache coming on.
Susan said in a kinder tone, “Look, I understand your misgivings. I really do. And I am in complete agreement that you should not do any legal work for that man. However, we can’t help but have some social interaction with him. He’s our next-door neighbor.”
“Next-door? We live on two-hundred-acre estates. People in Manhattan don’t even know the people in the next apartment.”
“This is not Manhattan,’’ she informed me. “We know all our neighbors here.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know them.’’ Susan stood and poured herself more coffee. “Also, I don’t want to give him or anyone the impression we are . . . well, bigoted. What if he were black and we were snubbing him? How would that look?”
“He’s not black. He’s Italian. He’s arrived. So now we can snub him because we don’t like him, not because of his race or religion. That’s what makes this country great, Susan.”
“But you do like him.”
There was a silence in the kitchen, and I could hear that damned regulator clock tick-tocking.
“I’m your wife, John. I can tell.”
I said finally, “I don’t dislike him.’’ I added, “But he’s a criminal, Susan.”
She shrugged. “So people say. But if he weren’t a criminal, would you like him?”
“Possibly.’’ I’m not a bigot or too much of a snob. Half my friends are Catholic. Some are Italian. The Creek is half Catholic. In fact, many of the racial, religious, and ethnic barriers around here have tumbled, which is good because in some odd way these new people have brought a new vitality to a dying world, like a blood transfusion. But as I said, you can assimilate only so much new blood, and the new blood, to continue the analogy, has to be compatible.
In my world, certain types of occupations are okay, and some are not. Also, golf, tennis, boating, and horses are taken seriously, whereas theater, concerts, fine arts, and such are okay, but not taken seriously unless one happens to be Jewish. It is still mostly a Wasp world in form and substance, if not in actual numbers.
Catholics and Jews are okay, you understand, if they act okay. Harry F. Guggenheim, one of the wealthiest men in America in his day, a friend of Charles Lindbergh, a staunch Republican and a Jew, was okay. The Guggenheim family opened the door through which other Jews have passed.
Before the last war, Catholics with French names such as the Belmonts and Du Ponts were okay, Irish Catholics were okay if they said they were Scotch-Irish Protestants, and Italians were okay if they were counts or dukes or had names that sounded as if they could be.
These days, Italians, Slavs, Hispanics, and even blacks are accepted, though on an individual basis. The new people, the Iranians, Arabs, Koreans, and Japanese, are still hanging out there in limbo, and no one seems to know if they’re going to be okay or not.
But what I do know is this: Frank the Bishop Bellarosa of Alhambra is not okay.
I said to Susan, “It’s not personal, it’s business. His business.”
“I understand.’’ She added, “I’m discovering that he’s quite famous. Everyone knows who he is. We have a celebrity next door.”
“Lucky us.’’ I finished my coffee. “By the way, if you should ever have occasion to speak to him on the phone, remember that his telephone conversations are probably being recorded by various law enforcement agencies.”
She looked at me with surprise. “Is that true?”
“I’m not certain, but it’s a strong possibility. However, since neither of you will be discussing drug buys or contract murders, I only mention that so you don’t say anything that could embarrass you if it were played back someday.”
“Such as what?”
“How do I know? Such as explaining what a calling card is, or discussing a new name for Alhambra. Something like that.”
“I see. All right.’’ She thought a moment. “I never even thought of his phone being tapped. I’m so naive.”
Susan uses that expression once in a while, and I suppose in the ways of the world, this sheltered little rich girl is naive. But when it comes to people, she is sharp, discerning, and confident. That’s her upper-class breeding.
She asked me, “Did you get his telephone number?”
“No.”
“Should I get it?”
“He’ll give it to us when he wants us to have it.”
“When will that be?”
“When he wants us to have it.”
Susan stayed silent a moment, then asked me, “What does he want, John?”
“I’m not sure. Respectability, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe he still wants me for a lawyer.”
“Perhaps,’’ Susan responded loyally. “You’re a good attorney.”
“But there must be more to it,’’ I admitted.
“There certainly must be,’’ Susan replied. She smiled. “Maybe he wants your soul.”
That turned out to be true, and he wasn’t even satisfied with that.
The next few weeks passed uneventfully, unless you consider the moving of a big brick stable an event. Susan had shot a roll of film that Monday morning, before the disassembly began, making sure to include Dominic and a dozen of his compatriots in many of the pictures. I still have those photos, and it is obvious that Susan, who is in some of the shots with those big laborers, was having as good a time as they were. There must be something about stables that sparks her libido.
Anyway, it was May, and everything was in bloom. Susan’s vegetable garden had survived the early planting, the cold rains, and the wildflowers that still considered the terraced garden their turf, if you’ll pardon the pun.
I fully expected Mr. Bellarosa to stop by one day to check on his laborers, but Susan said he never came around as far as she or the Allards knew, and if he had, she added, he’d forgotten to leave his calling card. Also, Bellarosa never telephoned, day or evening, and I was beginning to think I had overestimated his interest in us.
Susan, of course, had to drive to Alhambra to get to her horses each day, but she said she never saw the don or his wife. Susan had become quite friendly, however, with Anthony, who was apparently the full-time gatekeeper, to use a nice word for a Mafia foot soldier. Susan also reported that the Alhambra stables were in bad repair but recently cleaned, and one of Bellarosa’s grounds keepers helped her with watering, feeding, and such. I, myself, felt no need to ride or feed horses, and avoided Alhambra.
Another work crew from the don’s estate had already dug and poured footings to accommodate the stable, which was now a growing pile of brick and slate near the pond. Bellarosa’s men and vehicles used the service entrance and service roads, of course, and we saw little of them unless we took ourselves to the job sites. And the more I saw of this work—ten to twenty men, eight to ten hours a day, six days a week—the more I realized I had gotten too good a deal on the price. But in some husbandly way, I was happy to make my wife happy. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not shifting the blame for this whole episode to her. We are partners in life, and we are each aware of our responsibilities to each other, to ourselves, and for our actions. In fact, people like us are locked into cages of responsibilities and correct actions, which, while offering protection, also make us easy prey to people who understand that we can’t get out of the cage.
George Allard, I should mention, was not happy about the stable business, nor did I think he would be. But he never said anything critical, of course, he just asked me questions like, “Do you think we can plant shrubbery to fill in the empty space between the two stable wings, sir?”
Not a bad idea. With the main section of the structure gone—the most architecturally interesting part—the two long wings looked forlorn, almost institutional. I might send a picture to William Stanhope of the result of his half-assed gift to his daughter, and pass on George’s suggestion of shrubs so that this place will still show well to prospective buyers. Not that I care, but George does, and it’s my job.
George, incidentally, bugged the workers and hung around the job, picking up their paper trash and beer cans, and generally being a nuisance. Susan told me that she once saw one of the men playfully measuring George with a ruler as two other men were digging a “grave.’’ These were, indeed, the don’s men.
Anyway, I rarely went to the job site, though when I did, everyone was polite and respectful. The Italians, I find, are heavily into respect, and I guess any friend of the Padrone’s is due respect. Susan visited the job at least once a day, and I had the feeling her visits were welcome. She has an easygoing manner with working men, the opposite of the Lady Stanhope routine she pulls on near peers. I watched from a distance once as she moved around the job site, and the men looked at her as if she were hot antipasto. Italian men are not terribly subtle. Many women would feel intimidated by a dozen bare-chested laborers. Susan, you know, enjoys it.
Anyway, one morning during the week, I walked to the stables to see what progress was being made. There were a half dozen men there already, though it wasn’t yet eight
A
.
M
.
I watched as the men removed the last of the bricks, painstakingly chipped off the old mortar, and loaded them carefully onto a flatbed truck. What remained now of the middle section of the stables was the old wooden stalls, which would be broken up and carted away, and the cobblestone floor, which would be laid in the reconstructed stable. Also, to the left was the exposed tack room, and to the right was the blacksmith shop, looking very odd with no walls or roof, and with its anvil, furnace, and bellows sitting now outdoors. I hadn’t seen the blacksmith shop in fifteen years or more, and no one had used it for at least seventy years.
Overhanging the roofless shop was the old chestnut tree. I don’t know if a chestnut tree near a blacksmith shop is simply tradition, or if its spreading branches had the practical purpose of providing shade for the smithy in the summer. In either case, blacksmiths built their shops under the spreading chestnut tree. But in this land of make-believe, I know that Stanhope’s architects first placed the stable where they wanted it, then transplanted the giant chestnut tree in front of the blacksmith’s door. Tradition, Gold Coast style.
But, anyway, I saw now that the tree was not leafed out as it should have been by this time of year. It was, in fact, dying, as if, I thought, it understood now that the last seventy years had not been simply a pause, but the end. Well, perhaps I was in a mystical mood that May morning, but the tree had looked fine last summer, and I’m good at spotting tree problems. I wish I were as good at spotting my own problems.
I walked over to one of the men and asked, “Dominic?”
The man pointed in the general direction of Stanhope Hall, so I started off toward the mansion. As I came to the rise in the main drive, Stanhope Hall came into view, and I could see Dominic standing in front of the three-story-high portico, looking up at the house, with his hands on his hips.
I hesitated to make the two-hundred-yard trek, especially in suit and tie, and with a ten
A
.
M
. appointment in the city, but something told me to see what Dominic was up to.
He heard me approaching on the gravel drive and came part way to meet me. “Hello,’’ I said. “You like this house?”
“
Madonna
,’’ he replied. “It’s magnificent.”
Coming from a native-born Italian and a master mason, I took that as a high compliment. I asked, “Do you want to buy it?”
He laughed.
“Cheap,’’ I added.
“Cheapa, no cheapa, I no gotta the money.”
“Me neither. Is it well built?’’ I inquired.
He nodded. “It’s beautiful. All carva granite. Fantastic.”
Of course, Dominic may have had only an artistic interest in the house, but I wondered how he even knew it was back here. I looked him in the eye. “Perhaps Mr. Bellarosa would like to buy it.”
He shrugged.
“Is Mr. Bellarosa at home?”
Dominic nodded.
“Did he ask you to look it over?”
“No.”
“Well, you tell him it will last two thousand years.’’ I put my hand on Dominic’s shoulder and turned him around as I pointed. “Go through that grove of plum trees and you will see a Roman temple. You know Venus?”
“Sure.”
“She’s in the temple.’’ I added, “She has magnificent tits and a fantastic ass.”
He laughed a bit uncomfortably and glanced at me.
I patted his back. “Go on. It is very beautiful, very Roman.”
He looked skeptical, but shrugged and started off toward the sacred grove. I called after him, “And take a walk in the hedge maze.”
I headed back up the drive and paused at the terraced garden that Susan had chosen for her vegetables. The seedlings were six to eight inches high now, the rows free of weeds and wildflowers. At the base of the terrace’s marble retaining wall, I saw a large empty fertilizer bag. Susan was tending her garden well.
I continued back toward my house. I wasn’t completely surprised that Frank Bellarosa would be interested in Stanhope Hall. It was, after all, an Italianate house, something that would strike his fancy and fit his mental image of a palazzo more so, perhaps, than the stucco villa of Alhambra.
But Stanhope Hall is about three times the size of Alhambra, and I couldn’t conceive of Bellarosa’s having enough money to abandon his new house and start over again. No, I’m not naive, and I know how much money is in organized crime, but only a fraction of it can surface.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been sending my New York secretary to the public library to gather information on Mr. Frank Bellarosa. From the newspaper and magazine articles that she has come back with, I’ve pieced together a few interesting facts about the reputed boss of New York’s largest crime family. To wit: He recently moved into a Long Island estate. But I knew that. I also discovered that he owns a limousine service, and several florists that I suppose he keeps busy with funerals. He owns a trash-hauling business, a restaurant supply company, a construction company, with which I assumed I was doing business, and the HRH Trucking Company, who are the recorded owners of Alhambra.
These enterprises, I suppose, are where the legitimate money comes from. But I strongly suspect, as does the DA, that Frank Bellarosa is a partner in, or owner of, several other enterprises that are not registered with the Better Business Bureau.
But could he buy Stanhope Hall? And if he did, would he live there? What was this guy up to?
I got back to my house and took my briefcase from the den. As it was getting late, and parking at the station was tight, I asked Susan for a ride to the train.
On the way there, she asked, “Anything wrong this morning?”
“Oh . . . no. Just deep in thought.”
We reached the train station in Locust Valley with a few minutes to spare.
Susan asked, “When will you be home?”
“I’ll catch the four-twenty.’’ This is commuter talk and means that, barring a major Long Island Railroad horror show, I’d be at the Locust Valley station at 5:23. “I’ll catch a cab home.’’ This is husband talk for, “Will you pick me up?”
“I’ll pick you up,’’ Susan said. “Better yet, meet me at McGlade’s and I’ll buy you a drink. Maybe even dinner if you’re in a better mood.”
“Sounds good.’’ Susan was all lovey-dovey the last few weeks, and I didn’t know if that was a result of my Easter crack-up or because her dream of uniting her stables with her property was coming true. I used to understand the opposite sex when I was younger, about five or six years old, but they have become less understandable over the last forty years. I said, “Your garden looks good.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why we never planted vegetables before.”
“Maybe because it’s easier to buy them in cans.”
“But it’s exciting to watch them grow. I wonder what they are?”
“Didn’t you mark them? They were marked on the flats.”
“Oh. What should I do?”
“Nothing. I guess they know what they are. But I can tell you, you got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant.”
“Really?”
“Trust me.’’ I heard the train whistle. “See you.’’ We kissed, and I left the car and walked onto the platform as the train pulled in.
On the journey into Manhattan, I tried to sort things out that were not making sense. Bellarosa’s silence for one thing, while welcome, was slightly unnerving in some odd way.
But then I thought of those stories of Mussolini keeping the crowds waiting for hours and hours in the hot Italian sun until they were delirious with fatigue, and half insane with anticipation. And then, as the sun was setting, he would arrive, and the crowd would weep and throw flowers and shout themselves hoarse, their frenzy mounting into near hysteria.
But they were Italians. I am not. If Bellarosa was playing a psychological game, he was playing it with the wrong person.
• • •
As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait before Il Duce decided to show himself.
The train was on time, and at 5:23 I stepped onto the platform at Locust Valley, walked across Station Plaza, and entered McGlade’s. This is a good Irish pub on weekends, a businessman’s lunch place during the week, and on Monday to Friday, from about five to seven
P
.
M
., it is sort of a decompression chamber for strung-out commuters.
Susan was at the bar having a drink with a woman whom she introduced to me as Tappy or something, a member of the Gazebo Society who was waiting for her husband, who had apparently missed his train. By the look of the woman, her husband had been missing trains since about three
P
.
M
. There are always more than a few women in this place around this time who seem to be waiting for husbands who can’t seem to catch trains. Some of these ladies do sometimes go home with some husband or another. Anyway, I made a mental note to do some research on the Gazebo Society.