The men around me spoke mostly in English, but every once in a while, someone would say something in Italian; just a line or two that I couldn’t understand, of course. I regretted that I’d wasted eight years in French class. I mean, what can you do with French? Insult waiters? I did get lucky in Montreal once, but that’s another story.
Anyway, not everyone who came to the Plaza suite was there to pay homage and swear loyalty. A few men showed up with their own retinues, men with unpleasant faces whose embraces and kisses were strictly for show. These were men who were there for information. Among them were the four whom Bellarosa had sat with at Giulio’s, and also the steely-eyed man who had come in later with the bodyguard. Bellarosa would disappear with these men into his bedroom, and they would emerge ten or fifteen minutes later, their arms around one another, but I couldn’t tell who screwed whom in there.
At any given time, there were about a hundred men in the big sitting room, though, as I said, they were coming and going, but I estimated that as of about ten o’clock, two or three hundred people must have shown up. I wonder what the office Christmas party looks like.
Anyway, Bellarosa paid very little attention to me, but he wanted me to stay in the room, I suppose to show me off, or to immerse me in Mafiana, maybe even to impress me with his world. However, he barely introduced me to anyone, and when he did think to introduce me, I didn’t get any kisses or hugs, only a few surprisingly limp handshakes. But I wasn’t put out by this. In fact, I noticed that these people were not big on introductions in general and barely bothered with them or acknowledged them, even among themselves. I thought that odd, but perhaps it was only my cultural bias; I mean, in my crowd, and with Americans in general, introductions are a big deal, and I even get introduced to people’s maids and dogs. But with Bellarosa and his goombahs, I think there was this ingrained sense of secrecy, silence, and conspiracy that precluded a lot of idle chatter, including people’s names.
It was sort of an Italians-only party, I guess, but then Jack Weinstein showed up and I was never so happy to see a Jewish lawyer in my life. Weinstein came right up to me and introduced himself. He didn’t seem at all professionally jealous, and in fact, he said, “You did a nice job. I never could have sprung him.”
I replied, “Look, Mr. Weinstein—”
“Jack. I’m Jack. They call you Jack or John?”
Actually they call me Mr. Sutter, but I replied, “John is fine. Look, Jack, I don’t think I should have any further involvement in this case. I don’t do criminal work, and I simply don’t know the ropes at Foley Square.”
He patted my shoulder. “Not to worry, my friend. I’ll be in the wings the whole time. You just schmooze the judge and jury. They’ll love you.”
I smiled politely and regarded him a moment. He was a tall, thin man of about fifty with a deep tan, dark eyes, and a nose that could be described as Semitic or Roman; in fact, Weinstein could have passed for a
paesano.
Giovanni Weinstein.
He informed me, “You shouldn’t have said that about Ferragamo. About the aberrant behavior in court. Crazy people are very sensitive about being called crazy.”
“Screw him.”
Weinstein smiled at me.
I said, “Anyway, you know, of course, that Frank doesn’t think he will make it to trial. He thinks he’ll either be . . . you know . . . before then, or that Ferragamo will drop it for lack of evidence.”
Weinstein looked over both his shoulders and said softly, “That’s what this is all about. This gathering. This is public relations. He has to show that he’s not afraid, that he has the support of his business associates and that he’s still an effective manager.’’ He smiled. “
Capisce?
”
“Capisco.”
Weinstein chuckled. Boy, what a good time we were having. He said, “And I’m not going to bug you about that statement you made to the reporter out on the steps, John, because I put my foot in it a few times myself when I first came to work for this outfit. But you’ve got to be careful. These people speak their own brand of English. For instance, take the words ‘pal’ and ‘talk.’ If someone here says to you, ‘Hey, pal, let’s go outside for a talk,’ don’t go. Same with, ‘Let’s take a walk.’
Capisce?
”
“Sure. But—”
“I’m just making you aware of this stuff—expressions, nuances, double meanings, and all that. Just be aware. And don’t worry about facial expressions or hand gestures. You’ll never understand any of that anyway. Just listen closely, watch closely, keep your hands still, your face frozen, and say very little. You’re a Wasp. You can do that.”
“Right. I think I figured that out already.”
“Good. Anyway, I’m glad you were ready to go this morning. You know, usually the State Attorney General and sometimes even the U.S. Attorney will make an arrangement so that they don’t have to come and arrest a man like Bellarosa at his home, or on the street or in a public place. You understand, when you have a middle-aged man with money and ties, the prosecutor can work something out with the guy’s attorney. A voluntary surrender. But sometimes these bastards get nasty, like when they arrested those Wall Street characters in their own offices and marched them out in cuffs. That was bullshit.”
I shrugged. There were two ways of looking at that, depending on if you were watching it on TV or if you had the cuffs on.
Weinstein said, “We were pretty sure they’d come for Frank on a Tuesday, so when our snitch rang me last night and let me know it was on for seven this morning, I wasn’t too surprised.”
“What snitch?”
“In Ferragamo’s office . . . oh . . . forget where you heard that.”
“Sure.’’ I thought a moment. That son of a bitch cheated me out of fifty bucks. I couldn’t believe it. Here was a guy who threw fifty-dollar bills around, who offered me exorbitant fees for doing very little, and he screws me out of fifty bucks. Obviously, it wasn’t the money, it was his obsessive need to win, and to impress people. And this was also the guy who gave me his alibi two minutes before he was arrested, then told me to forget it while making it clear to me he didn’t intend to spend one day in jail. This guy was slick.
Weinstein said, “See what I mean? I figured you knew about that. You can’t figure these people, John. And they say Jews are tricky. Hell, this guy . . . well, enough of that.”
I inquired, “Is he in any real danger? I ask that because I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire, and I don’t mean that figuratively.”
Again Weinstein glanced around, then said, “The Hispanic gentlemen will never get to him, and really don’t want to get to him themselves, because that will cause them many problems. This is fine, because they tend to be indiscriminate with their submachine guns. However’’—his eyes traveled around the crowded room as he spoke—“someone here can and will get to him if they smell weakness, if they think he is more of a liability than an asset.’’ He added, “Think of a school of hungry sharks, and think of the biggest shark with a wound that leaves a trail of blood in the water. How long does that big shark have? Understand?”
I nodded.
“It’s not that they don’t like him,’’ Weinstein said, “or that he hasn’t done his job. But that’s history. They want to know about today and tomorrow. The bottom line with these people, Counselor, is keeping out of jail and making money.”
“No,’’ I informed him, “keeping out of jail and making money are the subtotals. The bottom line with these people is respect. Appearances. Balls.
Capisce?
”
He smiled and patted my cheek affectionately. “I stand corrected. You learn fast.’’ He said, “Give me a call when you get some time. We have a few things to discuss. We’ll have lunch.”
“Anyplace but Little Italy.”
He laughed, turned, and greeted someone in Italian. They hugged but didn’t kiss. That would be me in a year or so if I wasn’t careful.
A very short and very fat man came up to me, and his stomach hit me before I could back away. He said, “Hey, I know you. You work for Jimmy, right? Jimmy Lip. Right?”
“Right.”
He stuck out his fat, sweaty hand. “Paulie.”
We shook and I said, “Johnny. Johnny Sutta.”
“Yeah. You’re Aniello’s godson, right?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s he doin’?”
“Very good.”
“The cancer ain’t killed him yet?”
“Uh . . . no . . .”
“He’s a tough son of a bitch. You see him at Eddie Loulou’s funeral last month? You there?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah. Aniello walks in, half his face gone, and the fucking widow almost drops dead in the coffin with Eddie.’’ He laughed and so did I. Ha, ha, ha. He asked me, “You see that?”
“I heard about it when I got there.”
“Yeah. Jesus, why don’t he wear a scarf or something?”
“I’ll mention it to him when we have lunch.”
We talked for a few more minutes. I’m usually good at cocktail party chatter, but it was hard to find things in common with Paulie, especially since he thought I was someone else. I asked him, “Do you play golf?”
“Golf? No. Why?”
“It’s a very relaxing game.”
“Yeah? You wanna relax? What for? You relax when you get old. When you’re dead. What’s Jimmy doin’ with himself?”
“Same old shit.”
“Yeah? He better watch his ass. None of my business, but if I was him, I’d lay off the chinks for a while. You know?”
“I told him that.”
“Yeah? Good. You can push the chinks so far, you know, but if you keep leanin’ on them, they’re gonna get their little yellow balls in an uproar. Jimmy should know that.”
“He should.”
“Yeah. Hey, tell Jimmy that Paulie said hello.”
“Sure will.”
“Remind him about the place on Canal Street we got to look at.”
“I will.”
Paulie waddled off and bumped into someone else. I took a few steps toward the bar and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see a large gentleman whose features looked Cro-Magnon. He asked me, “What’s Fat Paulie talkin’ to you about?”
“Usual shit.”
“What’s the usual shit?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Hey, pal, if you don’t know who I am, you better fucking ask around.”
“Okay.’’ I moved to the bar and poured myself a sambuca. How, I wondered indignantly, could anyone here mistake me, John Whitman Sutter, for one of them? I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror. I still looked the same. But maybe my breath still smelled of
puttanesca
sauce and garlic.
Anyway, I asked a young man at the bar, “Who is that?’’ I cocked my head toward the Cro-Magnon gentleman.
He looked at the man, then at me. “You don’t know who that is? Whaddaya from Chicago or Mars?”
“I forgot my glasses.”
“Yeah? If you don’t know who that is, you don’t gotta know.”
This sounded like Italian haiku, so I dropped the subject. “Play golf?”
“Nah.’’ The young man leaned toward me and whispered, “That’s Sally Da-da.”
“Right.’’ Now I had three Sally’s in my life: Sally Grace; Sally of the Stardust Diner; and a gentleman who, if I recalled Mancuso correctly, was born Salvatore with a whole last name, but who had apparently not mastered much speech beyond the high-chair stage. How’s little Sally? Da-da-da. Sally want ba-ba? I said, “That’s the Bishop’s brother-in-law.”
“Yeah. Sally is the husband of the Bishop’s wife’s sister. What’s her name?”
“Anna.”
“No, the fucking sister.”
“Maria, right?”
“Yeah . . . no . . . whatever. Why you asking about Sally Da-da?”
“He told me to ask around about him.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“He wants to know what I was talking to Fat Paulie about.”
“You shouldn’t be talkin’ to Fat Paulie about nothing.”
“Why not?”
“If you don’t know, you better find out.”
“Fat Paulie talks too much,’’ I ventured.
“You got that right. Fat Paulie better watch his ass.”
“And Jimmy Lip better watch his ass, too,’’ I said.
“Why?”
“He’s leaning too hard on the chinks.”
“Again? What’s wrong with that asshole?”
“He listens to his godson too much.”
“Which godson?”
“Aniello. No, Johnny. No . . .’’ I had to think how that went.
The young man laughed. “I thought you was gonna say his godson Joey. I’m Joey. Who are you?”
“John Whitman Sutter.”
“Who?”
“The Bishop’s attorney.”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . I saw you on the news. Jack is out?”
“No, Jack is still in. I’m doing the front stuff.”