“Yes.”
“Nice-looking lady.”
“Thank you.”
We walked toward an unmarked car and he asked me, “Aren’t you the lawyer? Sutter? Bellarosa’s lawyer?”
“Right.”
“Maybe that’s why they didn’t take you out, too. They don’t do lawyers.”
“Lucky me.”
He opened the passenger-side door for me and said, “You ruined your suit, Mr. Sutter.”
“It’s an old one.’’ Though the tie was new.
• • •
So I spent the next few hours at Midtown South with two detectives, describing the events that had taken about ten minutes to happen. I really was being cooperative, though as an attorney, and especially as the victim’s attorney, I could have blown them off and left anytime. In fact, when they started asking questions about who I thought had done the deed, I told them to stick to factual questions. One of the detectives, however, kept asking me about Sally Da-da, and I told him to go ask Sally Da-da about Sally Da-da. But Mr. Da-da was in Florida as it turned out. How convenient.
So we went round and round, and this one detective, the bad-cop half of the team, asked me, “Why’d you save his life?”
“He owes me money.”
The good cop said, “He owes you his life. Collect on that.”
“How’s he doing?”
Good cop replied, “Still alive.”
I told them the joke about the Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car, but they seemed sort of weary and barely chuckled. I was getting very yawny myself, but they kept pressing coffee on me.
Midtown South is not an ordinary station house, but is sort of like headquarters for that part of Manhattan, and the joint was bustling with detectives on the second floor where I was. There was also a big room on the second floor where they kept mug-shot books, and I sat in there for about an hour with a detective who was passing me these books labeled “Wiseguys,’’ which I thought was funny.
Well, I looked at more Italian faces in that hour than I see in Lattingtown in ten years, but I didn’t recognize any of the photos as either of the two sportsmen with the shotguns. I remembered a phrase I heard in an old gangster movie once, and I said, “Maybe they used outside talent. You know, a few boys blew in from Chicago. Check the train stations.”
“Train stations?”
“Well, maybe the airports.”
Anyway, we went from mug shots to a slide show of a few dozen
paesanos
caught by the candid camera in their natural habitats. The detective explained, “These men have never been arrested, so we don’t have mug shots, but they’re all wiseguys.”
So I looked at the slide screen until my eyes were about gone and I was yawning and my head ached. A detective said, “We really appreciate your cooperation.”
“No problem.’’ But was I really going to finger the two gunmen if I saw their faces? Did I want to be a witness in a mob murder trial? No, I didn’t, but I would. Beyond all the bullshit of the last several months, I was still a good citizen, and had I seen the faces of either of those two men, I would have said, “Stop! That’s one of them.’’ But so far, no one looked familiar.
But then I started to see familiar faces and I blinked. The slides I was looking at now were unmistakably those shot from the DePauw residence with Alhambra in the background. It was, in fact, the Easter Sunday rotogravure, and the enlarged, grainy slides showed a lot of people in their Easter finery getting out of big black cars. I said, “Hey, I remember that day.’’ And there was Sally Da-da with a woman who could well have been Anna’s sister, and there was Fat Paulie with a woman who could have been his brother, and there were faces I recognized from Giulio’s and from the Plaza Hotel, but none of those faces were the ones I had seen aiming down the barrels of those big cannons.
Then the screen flashed to a night view of Alhambra, and there was wiseass John Sutter waving to the camera with pretty Susan in her red dress beside me, giving me a look of puzzled impatience. I said, “That’s the guy! I’ll never forget that face.”
The two detectives chuckled. One of them said, “Looks like a killer.”
“Beady eyes,’’ agreed the other.
Well, the slide show ended, and to be honest, I couldn’t identify the two men, but I said, “Look, I’m willing to do this all over again, but not tonight.”
“It’s best to do it while it’s still fresh in your mind, sir.”
“It’s too fresh. All I can see now is four black muzzles.”
“We understand.”
“Good. Well, good night.”
But not quite. I spent another few hours with a police sketch artist, a pretty woman, which made the thing sort of tolerable. I was very tempted to describe to her the features of Alphonse Ferragamo, but cops take this sort of thing seriously, and I guess I do, too. So I tried to re-create in words what two goombahs looked like on a dimly lit street, crouched behind a car with shotguns partially blocking their faces. Linda—that was the artist’s name—gave me a book of sketches of eyes and mouths and all that, and it was sort of fun, like a mix-and-match game, and we sat shoulder to shoulder hunched over the sketch pad. She wore a nice perfume, which she said was Obsession. As for me, my deodorant had quit, and the little splatters of mortality on my clothes were getting ripe.
Anyway, she produced two sketches that, with some alterations, looked like the boys with the guns. But by this time, I was so punchy I literally couldn’t see straight. Linda said, “You were very observant considering the circumstances. Most people blank, you know, sort of like a hysterical blindness, and they can’t even tell you if the guy was black or white.”
“Thank you. Did I mention that the guy on the right had a tiny zit on his jaw?”
She smiled. “Is that so?’’ She took a fresh pad and said, “Sit still,’’ then did a quick charcoal sketch of me, which was a little embarrassing. She ripped off the sheet and slid it across the table. I picked it up and studied it a moment. The woman had obviously been drawing felons too long, because the guy in the sketch looked like a bad dude. I said, “I need some sleep.”
Well, it was approaching dawn, and again I figured I was through for the night, but who should show up at Midtown South but Mr. Felix Mancuso of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I asked him, “Slumming?”
But he was in no mood for my wit. Neither was I, to tell you the truth.
I inquired, “How is my client doing?”
“Alive, but not very well, I’m afraid. Lots of blood loss, and they’re talking about possible brain impairment.”
I didn’t reply.
Mr. Mancuso and I spoke in private for ten or fifteen minutes, and I leveled with him, and he believed me that I knew absolutely nothing more than what I’d told the NYPD, and that I really hadn’t been able to identify any of the mug shots or the faces on the slides. I did suggest, however, that Mr. Lenny Patrelli was part of the conspiracy.
He replied, “We know that. The limo was found parked out by Newark Airport and Patrelli’s body was in the trunk.”
“How awful.”
Mr. Mancuso looked at me. “You could have been killed, you know.”
“I know.”
He said, “They still may decide to kill you.”
“They may.”
“Do you think they’re nice guys because they left you alive? Are you grateful?”
“I was. But it’s wearing off.”
“Do you want federal protection?”
“No, I have enough problems. I really don’t think I’m on the hit list.”
“You weren’t, but you may be now. You saw their faces.”
“But that’s not what we’re telling the press, are we, Mr. Mancuso?”
“No, but the guys who did the hit know you saw them up close, Mr. Sutter. They probably didn’t figure you would be that close to them or to Bellarosa, and they couldn’t be sure who you were. Pros don’t hit people they’re not told to hit or paid to hit. You could have been a cop for all they knew, or a priest in civvies. So they let you stand rather than get in trouble with the guys who ordered the job. But now we have a different situation.’’ He looked at me closely.
I said, “I’m really not too concerned. Those guys were pros as you said, and they’re from someplace else, Mr. Mancuso. They’re long, long gone, and I wouldn’t be too surprised if they turned up in a trunk, too.”
“You’re a cool customer, Mr. Sutter.”
“No, I’m a realistic man, Mr. Mancuso. Please don’t try to scare me. I’m scared enough.”
He nodded. “Okay.’’ Then he made eye contact with me and said, “But I told you, didn’t I? I told you no good would come of this. I
told
you. Correct?”
“Correct. And I told
you
, Mr. Mancuso, what Alphonse Ferragamo was up to. Didn’t I? So if you want to find another accessory to this attempted murder, go talk to him.”
Poor Mr. Mancuso, he looked sleepy and sad and really disgusted. He said, “I hate this. This killing.”
I informed Saint Felix that I didn’t care much for it either. And on the subject of mortality, I also informed him, “I stink of blood. I’m leaving.”
“All right. I’ll drive you. Where do you want to go?”
I thought a moment and replied, “Plaza Hotel.”
“No, you want to go home.”
Maybe he was right. “Okay. Do you mind?”
“No.”
So, after some NYPD formalities, including a promise by me not to leave town, we left Midtown South and got into Mr. Mancuso’s government-issued vehicle and went through the Midtown Tunnel, heading east on the expressway. The sun was coming up and it was a beautiful morning.
Mr. Mancuso and I must have had a simultaneous thought because he asked me, “Are you happy to be alive?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
So was I. I asked him, “How is Mrs. Bellarosa?”
“She looked all right when I saw her a few hours ago.’’ He asked me, “And Mrs. Sutter? Was she very upset?”
“She seemed composed when I last saw her.”
“These things sometimes have a delayed reaction. You should keep an eye on her.”
I should have kept an eye on her since April, and I think that’s what he meant. “She’s a strong woman.”
“Good.”
We made small talk as we headed into the rising sun, and to his credit, he wasn’t taking the opportunity to pump me about this or that, and so I didn’t bug him about Ferragamo again.
Whatever we were talking about must have been boring because I fell asleep and awoke only when he poked me as we drove up Stanhope Hall’s gates, which Susan had left open. Mancuso drove up to the guesthouse and I got out of the car and mumbled my thanks to him. He said, “We’ll keep an eye on the place. We’re here anyway.”
“Right.”
“Do you want this sketch? Is this supposed to be you?”
“Keep it.’’ I stumbled out of the car, staggered to the door, and let myself in. On the way up the stairs, I peeled off my bloody clothes and left them strewn on the steps where Lady Stanhope could deal with the mess. I arrived at the guest bathroom stark naked (except for my Yale ring) and took a shower sitting down.
Madonn
’, what a lousy night.
I went into my little room and fell into bed. I lay there staring up at the ceiling as the morning sun came in the window. I heard Susan in the hallway, then heard her on the stairs. It sounded as if she was gathering up the clothes.
A few minutes later there was a knock on my door and I said, “Come in.”
Susan entered, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a glass of orange juice. “Drink this,’’ she said.
I took the orange juice and drank it, though I had a stomach full of coffee acid.
She said, “The policeman who drove me home said you were a lucky man.”
“I’m definitely on a lucky streak. Tomorrow I’m going skydiving.”
“Well, you know what he meant.’’ She added, “I’m lucky to have you home.”
I didn’t reply, and she stood there awhile, then finally asked me, “Is he dead?”
“No. But he’s critical.”
She nodded.
“How do you feel about that?’’ I inquired.
She replied, “I don’t know.’’ She added, “Maybe you did the right thing.”
“Time will tell.’’ I informed her, “I’m tired.”
“I’ll let you get some sleep. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No, thank you.”
“Sleep well.’’ She left and closed the door behind her.
As I lay there, I had this unsettling feeling that I
had
done the right thing, but for the wrong reason. I mean, my instinct as a human being was to save a life. But my intellect told me that the world would be well rid of Mr. Frank Bellarosa. Especially this part of the world.
But I
had
saved his life, and I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was the right thing to do. But really, I had done it because I wanted him to suffer, to be humiliated knowing he was the target of his own people, and to face the judgment of society, not the judgment of the scum that had no legal or moral right to end anyone’s life, including the life of one of their own.