“Yeah. I heard that. Whaddaya want with Sally Da-da?”
“Just talk.”
“Yeah. You wanna stay away from that guy. You let the Bishop talk to him.”
“
Capisco. Grazie.
’’ I made my way to the window and looked out over Central Park. Basically all cocktail parties are the same. Right? You just have to get a few drinks in you, get warmed up a little, and work the room. The only thing missing at this little gathering was women. Actually, I realized I didn’t miss them.
Capisce?
• • •
At about ten
P
.
M
., a short, squat gentleman with hairy hands arrived, wheeling four suitcases on a luggage cart, one of which looked like my Lark two-suiter. Lenny directed the man, whom he knew, into the appropriate bedrooms. I wondered if Lady Stanhope enjoyed packing my suitcase. I’m glad Frank asked her, not me.
At eleven
P
.
M
., someone switched to a network news channel and turned up the volume. People began to quiet down and drift over to the TV set.
The lead story was still the arrest of Frank Bellarosa, but the slant this time was Alphonse Ferragamo’s noontime news conference, which had been given short shrift earlier. I had no doubt that the U.S. Attorney’s office had complained vigorously about media sensationalism and too much human-interest fluff regarding don Bellarosa and his attorney. Time for hard news.
After the anchor’s lead-in, the screen showed yet another cameraman’s perspective of the steps of the courthouse, with Bellarosa waving to everyone, and with me looking tan, fit, tall, and well dressed. No wonder the women love me.
Anyway, this lasted only five seconds or so, then the scene shifted to a crowded press-conference room, probably in the bowels of the Foley Square complex. A close-up of the podium showed Alphonse Ferragamo looking more composed than when I’d last seen him in court. A few people around me made interesting observations about the U.S. Attorney, such as “motherfucker,’’ “cocksucker,’’ “asshole,’’ “shithead,’’ and “faggot.’’ I’m glad Alphonse’s mother wasn’t in the room.
Mr. Ferragamo shuffled some papers and read a prepared statement. “At seven-forty-five this morning,’’ he began, “agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, working within a Federal Organized Crime Task Force, which includes New York City and State police and agents of the Drug Enforcement Agency, acting in coordination with the Nassau County police, effected the arrest of Frank Bellarosa at his Long Island mansion.”
I could have sworn I saw only Mancuso there. But I guess everybody else was out on Grace Lane, and they wanted to be mentioned.
Ferragamo went on, “This arrest is the culmination of a seven-month investigation by New Jersey state police acting in concert with the U.S. Attorney’s office and the FBI. The evidence presented to the grand jury, which led to the indictment and arrest of Frank Bellarosa, implicates Bellarosa as the triggerman in the slaying of the reputed Colombian drug king Juan Carranza.”
So Ferragamo went on, fashioning a hangman’s noose for my client, and I wondered who in that hotel room would put it around his neck. From where I was standing, I could see Bellarosa’s face, and he betrayed no emotion, no uneasiness or discomfort. He was listening to
La Traviata
in his head again. But I could see several other men in the room who looked uneasy. Others looked deep in thought, and a few glanced quickly at Bellarosa.
Ferragamo tied the last knot in the rope by announcing, “Federal witnesses have testified in closed session that there is an ongoing power struggle within the Bellarosa organization and that the murder of Juan Carranza was not sanctioned by the organization or by the other four crime families in New York. The murder was carried out by Bellarosa and a faction of his organization that wants to regain dominance of the drug trade and push out the Colombians, the Caribbean connections, and the East Asian connections.”
Ferragamo continued, “This murder indictment is only the first of many more indictments to come in the war against organized crime. The scope of this investigation has been widened to include other charges against Frank Bellarosa including charges of racketeering under the RICO Act. Other figures in Bellarosa’s organization are also under investigation.”
That didn’t get a round of applause. On one level, everyone knew that Ferragamo was beating the bush to see who would panic and run to him. But on another level, everyone in that room had a friend or relative in jail. Mancuso had been right about the mob’s being crippled by a slew of recent convictions. But there were others in the five families who saw this as an opportunity, a period of cleansing. Out with the old blood, in with the new. Gang wars used to accomplish the same thing.
And speaking of gang wars, Ferragamo was right on top of it. He said, “The U.S. Attorney’s office and other federal, state, and city law enforcement agencies are concerned that this struggle for control of the drug distribution may lead to a new type of gang war on the streets of New York: a war between and among different ethnic groups who live in uneasy peace among themselves, but who may now resort to violence.’’ Ferragamo looked up from his prepared statement.
For a half second you could hear the breathing in the room around me, then a reporter at the press conference asked Ferragamo, “Did you expect Bellarosa to show up with a Wall Street lawyer and five million dollars?”
A few people in the press room laughed, and in the hotel room many heads turned toward me.
Ferragamo smiled sardonically. “We had some indication of that.”
Then, there she was, Ms. Snippy, aka Jenny Alvarez, standing up and asking, “You have five witnesses, Mr. Ferragamo, who say they saw Frank Bellarosa shoot Juan Carranza. Yet Bellarosa’s lawyer, John Sutter, says he saw Bellarosa on Long Island that morning. Who’s lying?”
Alphonse Ferragamo gave a nice Italian shrug. “We’ll let a jury decide that.’’ He added, “Whoever is lying will be charged with perjury.”
Including you, Alphonse. I’m not taking this rap alone. And so it went for another minute, but then it was time to get on to the standard story of the fire in the South Bronx, which was only newsworthy because nobody could believe there was anything left in the South Bronx to burn. Actually, I think they run the same footage of the last fire on slow news days.
Lenny flipped through the other two networks, but we only caught the last few seconds of the Ferragamo news conference, which had apparently been everyone’s lead story.
Lenny turned back to the all-news channel, which at that particular moment was doing sports. The Mets did it again, trouncing Montreal six to one. What a day.
Why did I feel eyes on me? Well, time to fade to black as they say, so I opened the door to my bedroom, but saw it was being used for a meeting. Sitting around on my chairs and bed were six unhappy-looking men, including Mr. Sally Da-da, who stared at me and inquired, “Yeah?”
“This is my room.”
They all looked from one to another, then back at me. “Yeah?”
I said, “I’ll give you ten minutes.’’ I closed the door and went right to the bar. Actually, they could have longer if they needed it.
The crowd had thinned to about thirty men now, and I noticed that Jack Weinstein was gone. I took my drink and went to one of the windows again and opened it, breathing in some fresh air.
Frank Bellarosa came up beside me with a drink in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. We both stared out at the park and the lights of the great city. Finally he said, “You have a good time tonight?”
“Interesting.”
“You talked to Jack.”
“Yes. Smart guy.”
“Yeah. Who else you talk to?”
“Fat Paulie. Some other people. I didn’t catch many names.”
“Yeah? You meet my brother-in-law?”
“Sort of.’’ I added, “He’s in my bedroom now with five other men.”
Bellarosa said nothing.
We continued looking out into the summer night, and I was reminded of the night on his balcony. He offered me a cigar and I took it. He lit it with a gold lighter, and I blew smoke out the window. He said to me, “You understand what’s happening here?”
“I think I do.”
“Yeah. We got a long, hard fight ahead of us, Counselor. But we won round one today.”
“Yes. By the way, I’d like my fifty dollars back.”
“What?”
“I heard about your snitch in Ferragamo’s office.”
“Yeah? From who?”
“Doesn’t matter who.”
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a fifty, which I took. He said, “Wanna make another bet?”
“What’s the bet?”
“I bet that’s the last time you catch me cheating.’’ He laughed and slapped me on the back.
So we puffed away on the Monte Cristo’s, then he said to me, “A lot of these goombahs think you’re magic or something.
Capisce?
They respect your world. They think you people still hold the power in your hands. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s slipping away. Maybe if the Italians and the Anglos could somehow get together, we could get New York back. Maybe get this country back.”
I didn’t reply, because I couldn’t tell if he was serious, joking, or crazy.
He said, “Anyway, you have this . . . what do you call it . . . ? This like aura, you know, around you, like you are connected to powerful forces. That’s what they said on television. That’s what a lot of these goombahs believe.”
“You sure got your fifty thousand worth.”
He laughed. “Yeah.”
“You understand, I hope, that I have no such power. I’m socially and financially connected, but not politically connected at all.”
He shrugged. “So what? That’s between us.”
“All right. I’m going to bed. Can I kick your brother-in-law out of my room?”
“Later. We’ll wait up for the bulldog editions. I can get the
Post
and the
Daily News
hot off the press in about half an hour. I got people waiting for them now.’’ He asked me, “Hey, you call your wife?”
“No. Did you call yours?”
“Yeah, she called before. She’s okay. She said to tell you hello. She likes you.”
“She’s a nice woman. A good wife.”
“Yeah, but she drives me nuts with her worrying. Women.
Madonn
’.’’ He let a second or two pass, then said, “Maybe it’s good that we get away from them for a few days. You know? They appreciate you more when you’re gone awhile.”
I wondered if Anna appreciated her husband more after he returned from two years in a federal penitentiary. Maybe she did. Maybe if I got nailed on a perjury rap and went away for five years, Susan would really appreciate me. Maybe not.
• • •
At about midnight, with about a dozen people left in the suite, two men arrived within a few minutes of each other, each carrying a stack of newspapers. One had the
Post
, the ink still wet on it, and the other, the
Daily News
. They threw the papers on the coffee table.
I read the
Post
headline:
GOTCHA
,
FRANK
. The
Post
is not subtle. Beneath the headline was a full-page photo of Frank Bellarosa being led down a corridor of the Federal Court in cuffs, with Mancuso holding his arm. I learned from the caption that Mr. Mancuso’s first name was Felix, which explained a lot.
It was obvious that despite the prohibition against cameras in the courthouse, Ferragamo had arranged for the daily newspapers to have photo opportunities during the time that Bellarosa was in cuffs. A picture is worth a thousand words, and maybe as many votes when November rolled around.
Bellarosa picked up one of the copies of the
Post
and studied the photo. “I’m taller than Mancuso. You see? Ferragamo likes to have big FBI guys around the guy in cuffs. He don’t like Mancuso for a lot of reasons. Plus the guy’s short.’’ He laughed.
The remaining men in the room, including me, Frank, Lenny, Vinnie, Sally Da-da and two of his goons, and a few other soldier types each took or shared the newspapers. I picked up a copy of the
Daily News
, whose headline read:
BELLAROSA ON MURDER CHARGE
.
Again, there was a full-page photo, this one of Bellarosa holding his cuffed hands up, clenched together like a victorious prizefighter. The caption read:
Frank Bellarosa, reputed boss of New York’s largest crime family, taken into custody in Federal Court yesterday morning.
I held the newspaper up for Bellarosa. “You’ll like this shot.”
He took the paper. “Yeah. Good picture. I remember that one.”
Vinnie said, “You look good, boss.”
Lenny nodded. “Yeah. Nice shots, boss.”
Everyone else added their congratulations on a fine photo, cuffs notwithstanding. I wondered if Frank Bellarosa got tired of full-time sycophants.
I did notice that Sally Da-da was not adding his congratulations, but was reading the
News.
I did not like this man, and he knew it. And he did not like me, and I knew it, so it sort of balanced out. But aside from not liking him, I didn’t trust him.