But spring follows as surely as winter ends. Right? And I have my eye on a used Allied fifty-five footer that I can pick up for a song in the winter months if I can get my prestigious law firm to settle up with me. And Carolyn and Edward will crew for me over Easter week on a shakedown cruise, and by summer I’ll be ready to set out again with my children if they want to come, or with anyone else who wants to crew aboard the
Paumanok II
. I’ll stop in Galveston to see Emily, then if I can shanghai her and Gary or any two or three people who are game enough, we’ll do a circumnavigation of the globe. Hey, why not? You only live once.
I slipped out through the gates of Alhambra and began the walk up Grace Lane toward the gatehouse and Ethel’s Sunday roast.
And maybe, I thought, when I come back to America, I’ll put in at Hilton Head and see if forever is forever.
We spent a few more days at the Plaza, but neither Frank nor I ever mentioned or alluded to the subject of my wife’s being his mistress. But I could tell he was still burdened by the subject, and he could tell I was not. I don’t mean to suggest I was playing with him; he was not a man to be played with. But apparently he had some human feelings like the rest of us mortals, and I sensed he felt he’d gone beyond the bounds of even Machiavellian behavior and crossed into actual sin. Well, Father what’s-his-name could issue him a quick absolution over the phone. “Say two Hail Mary’s, Frank, when you get a chance. See you at Communion.”
Anyway, on one of those days at the Plaza, I had lunch with Jack Weinstein, whom I took a liking to. On another day, I called Alphonse Ferragamo, whom I had taken a disliking to. But I was nice to Alphonse, as per my client’s orders, and Mr. Ferragamo and I agreed to fight fair and clean, but we were both lying.
Alphonse—not me—brought up the subject of my client’s cooperating in other matters of interest to the Justice Department in exchange for Justice dropping the charge of murder. I replied, “He’s not guilty of murder.”
Mr. Ferragamo informed me, “Well, we think he is. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to Washington about a blanket immunity for Bellarosa if he wants to talk.”
“How about absolution?”
Ferragamo chuckled. “That’s between him and his priest. I’m talking immunity from prosecution for good information.”
Good information?
What kind of information did the stupid son of a bitch think the don of dons had—the location of a bookie joint in Staten Island? Bellarosa had plenty of good information; he just wasn’t going to give it to the Justice Department.
“Immunity on anything he testifies about under oath,’’ said Alphonse, which is not quite the same as blanket immunity in exchange for unsworn information. This guy played it slick. I thought a moment. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa squealed, the Mafia in New York would be crippled for years, maybe forever. And perhaps for that reason alone, his
paesanos
wanted him dead. He simply had too much information and he had a good memory.
I said to Alphonse, “Mr. Ferragamo, my client knows nothing about organized crime. But if he did, I think he’d rather speak to the State Attorney General than to you.”
This got Alphonse a little worked up. The nice thing about a federal form of government is that you can play off one level of government against another. They taught me that in civics class. Well, they didn’t, but they should have. Alphonse said, “That’s not a good idea, Mr. Sutter. That won’t get your client off the hook with the United States government.”
“And cooperating with you won’t get my client off the hook with the New York State government.”
“Well . . . let me work on a joint immunity sort of thing. Would that be what you’re looking for?”
“Maybe. And we have six parking violations in the city. We want those fixed, too.”
When I heard him force a laugh, I knew I had him by the short hairs. He said, “So you present this possibility to your client, Mr. Sutter. You seem a bright and reasonable man. Maybe a man like you could convince your client to make a really smart move.”
“I’ll tell him what we discussed.’’ You have to understand that every prosecutor in America would like to get just one break like that in a lifetime; a top-level bad guy who was willing to sing for a year into a tape recorder and rat out a thousand other bad guys. To tell you the truth, it was a good deal for Frank. Ferragamo, in effect, was offering Frank Bellarosa his life. But very few of these
paesanos
made deals, and Frank Bellarosa was the last man in America you would approach with a government offer. But Alphonse was asking, and I had to make sure he was offering the real thing, and it was my duty to pass it on. I said to the U.S. Attorney, “Meanwhile, we really want a quick trial date, Mr. Ferragamo, or I have to start complaining to the press.”
“My case is ready, Mr. Sutter. My office is working on a date.”
Bullshit.
“Fine. When can I speak to the government witnesses?”
“Soon.”
Horseshit.
“Thank you.”
Understand that U.S. Attorneys don’t often speak directly to defense lawyers, and when they do, they’re a bit arrogant and bullying. But Mr. Ferragamo had probably been reading about John Whitman Sutter in the newspapers, and he must have gotten the impression that I was someone with power, and he was being nice to me at least until he had me checked out. Also, of course, he wanted me to get Frank to sell out. But there was the matter of my perjury, which must have perplexed him. I said to Alphonse, “I saw you on TV the other night, Mr. Ferragamo, and I didn’t appreciate the inference you made that I was lying about my client’s whereabouts.”
“I didn’t actually say you were lying, nor did I use your name. I said we are investigating the alibi.”
“Meaning you’re sending Justice Department investigators around to my community and my offices to see if anyone can tell you where
I
was on January fourteenth of this year. I don’t like that.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Sutter, that is how I must proceed.’’ He added, “It may have simply been a case of mistaken identity on your part. Correct?”
“I know whom I saw.”
“Well, if you’re willing to say that, and ten years in jail for perjury doesn’t frighten you, then I suppose you know where you were on January fourteenth. That was the day before you flew to Florida for vacation, wasn’t it?”
Mamma mia
, first the IRS, then this guy. Why was everyone so intent on getting me into a federal prison? It must be my attitude. I replied, “You’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ money, Mr. Ferragamo. But I respect your thoroughness and diligence.”
“Thank you. Please think about what I’ve said. Whatever we can work out for your client, we can also work out for you.”
I bit my lip, my tongue, and a pencil, and replied, “Thank you for your time.”
• • •
Anyway, I spoke to Jack Weinstein in his Midtown office the next day, as you don’t talk about these things on the telephone. I outlined what Alphonse Ferragamo had said and added, “I know what Frank’s answer is going to be, Jack, but this is perhaps his one last chance to save his life, and to start a new life.”
Weinstein stayed silent a few minutes, then said to me, “Okay, John, I’m Ferragamo and I have you for perjury and you’re looking at maybe ten in a federal prison. Okay, what I want from you is all the information you have on your friends and relatives and business partners that can put them away for cheating on their taxes, for playing fast and loose with SEC rules, for doing a little coke and marijuana, maybe for price-fixing, and for all those other little white-collar things that you winked at over the years. Okay, so your partners will go to jail, your wife’s family goes to jail, your family goes to jail, your old school buddies go to jail, and you go free. What do you say, John?”
“I say fuck you, Alphonse.”
“Precisely. And it goes deeper than that with those people, my friend. It’s some kind of ancient distrust of government, some primitive code of honor and of silence.
Capisce?”
“Yes, but the world has changed, Jack. Really it has.”
“I know. But nobody’s told these people yet. You go tell Frank the world has changed and tell him to give up every last
paesano
he knows. Go tell him.”
I stood to leave. “I suppose if Frank Bellarosa plays by the old rules, then he holds the old world together.”
“I think that’s it.’’ He added, “But you do have to tell him what Ferragamo said. Schedule about two minutes for that conversation.”
“Right.”
“Hey, how does ‘Weinstein and Sutter’ sound?”
Not real terrific, Jack. But I smiled and replied, “How about ‘Sutter, Weinstein and Melzer’?”
He laughed. “
Melzer?
I wouldn’t share a match with that guy.”
I left Weinstein’s office knowing that despite my ambivalent feelings about Frank Bellarosa’s being alive, well, and free, I had done my job.
But to be certain, I did present Ferragamo’s offer to Bellarosa. However, I didn’t need a whole two minutes because after about thirty seconds, Bellarosa said to me, “Fuck him.”
“That’s your final decision?”
“Fuck him and fuck his dog. Who the hell does he think he’s dealing with?”
“Well, he just took a shot at it. Don’t take it personally. He has a job to do.”
“Fuck him and fuck his job.”
Pride goeth before the fall. Right?
• • •
Anyway, Frank and I and Lenny and Vinnie drove to the rifle club one night. We went down to the basement with a bunch of other sportsmen, all armed with revolvers and automatics, and we blasted away at paper targets and drank wine all night. Jolly fun, almost like bird shooting out in the Hamptons, lacking only a beautiful autumn landscape, tweedy old gentlemen, vintage sherry, and birds. But not bad for Manhattan.
Lenny and Vinnie, as it turned out, were really good shots, which I suppose I should have known. But I discovered it the hard way after losing about two hundred dollars to them on points.
So there I was at a Mafia shooting range, blasting away at paper targets with my wife’s boyfriend and his Mafia pals, wondering if perhaps I should have taken in a movie instead. Anyway, we were all a little pie-eyed from the wine, and the shots were getting wilder, and one of the club members presented Bellarosa with a silhouette target on which someone had sketched in the features of Alphonse Ferragamo. The drawing was not Michelangelo quality, but it wasn’t bad, and you could identify Alphonse with the owl eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and all that. Frank hung the target and put four out of six rounds through its heart at thirty feet, much to everyone’s delight. It was not bad shooting considering he’d had enough wine to make him unsteady on his feet. But the whole incident made me a little uncomfortable.
• • •
The next few days passed with phone calls and meetings, mostly in the suite. I had expected a man like Bellarosa to have a girlfriend, or many girlfriends, or at least to get someone for a night. But I saw no signs of impropriety during the time we were at the Plaza. Maybe he was being faithful to his wife and mistress.
As for my impropriety, Bellarosa said to me, “Hey, I don’t mind you bringing women up here, but no more lady reporters. She’s just trying to get something out of you.”
“No, she just likes my company.”
“Hey, I know that type. They use their twats to get ahead. You don’t find that type in my business.”
Indeed, no one in Frank’s business had female genitalia. If the government couldn’t get him on murder or racketeering, maybe they could nail him on discriminatory hiring.
He went on, “I’m telling ya, Counselor, I’d rather see you talking to the devil than some
puttan
’ who’s trying to make a name for herself.”
Well, what was I going to say? That I was infatuated with Jenny Alvarez and it was strictly personal? I mean, it was hard for me to hold the moral high ground after dragging Ms. Alvarez and a bottle of scotch into my room. You know? But did I have to listen to a sermon from Frank Bellarosa? Maybe I did.
The Bishop went on, “Men’s business is men’s business. Women don’t play by the same rules.”
“Neither do men,’’ I informed him.
“Yeah. But some do. I try to keep my business in the family. You know? My own kind. That’s why I had to make you an honorary Italian.’’ He laughed.
“Am I a Sicilian or a Neapolitan?”
He laughed again. “I’ll make you a Roman because you’re a pain in the ass.”
“I’m honored.”
“Good.”
Indeed, everyone in Frank’s world was male, and nearly all of them were Italian, and most of them were of Sicilian ancestry or from the city or region of Naples, as Bellarosa’s family was. This did make the rules of behavior and business easier, but there weren’t many outside ideas that penetrated this closed world.
Jack Weinstein’s roots, though, were obviously not southern Italian, and he was perhaps Bellarosa’s link to the outside. I had learned, incidentally, that Weinstein’s family and Bellarosa’s family had known one another in Williamsburg. That section of Brooklyn, you should understand, was not predominantly Italian, but was mostly German, Jewish, and a little Irish. A real melting pot, to use an inaccurate term, since no one mixed much, let alone melted. However, because of the proximities of other cultures, the Williamsburg immigrants were not quite as insular as the immigrants in other areas of New York, who created tight little worlds. Thus, the Williamsburg Italians, such as those around Santa Lucia, went to school with and even made friends with non-Italians. This information came from Mr. Bellarosa, who didn’t use the words
proximity
and
insular
, but I understood what he was saying. Anyway, he and Weinstein went back a lot of years, which I found interesting, and like me, Jack Weinstein did not want to be, nor could he ever be, under Mafia constitutional law, the don. Thus, Weinstein was Bellarosa’s Henry Kissinger, if you’ll accept that analogy. So how did I fit into the Bellarosa crime family? Well, I was the noblest Roman of them all.