“We’re actually going to present our side in court.”
So we went on in this vein for a while, Ms. Alvarez thinking I was playing hard to get, and I, to be honest, not blowing her off because I was enjoying the company. She had nice full lips.
We ordered a second round. She could not comprehend, of course, that not everyone in America wanted to be on television. Finally, growing a little weary with her obsessive badgering, I said, “I had a dream last night that I slept with you.”
She seemed like a tough sort of lady who’d heard it all before, but this took her by surprise, and she actually got flustered. I was smitten. I said, “Look, Ms. Alvarez—can I call you Jenny?”
“Yes.”
“Look, Jenny, you must know that these people don’t appear on TV shows. You have a better chance of getting the Premier of the Soviet Union on your show than getting Frank Bellarosa.”
She nodded, but only, I think, to get her brain working better. She said, “But
you
are not in the Mafia—”
“There is no Mafia.”
“
You
can talk to us. Mr. Ferragamo has agreed to come on the show—”
“He’d do a sitcom if the ratings were high enough.”
She giggled. “Come on, Mr. Sutter . . . John. Don’t you see how this can help your client?”
So we began round three with another round of drinks. She went on for a while, making a good case for television exposure, but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. I said, “It was a very realistic dream.”
She replied, “Look, if it means getting you on the air . . .”
I paid more attention. “Yes?”
“Well . . . we can scramble you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. Scramble your face and voice. No one will know it’s you.”
“Unless you introduce me by name.”
“Don’t be silly. What would be the point of—?”
“You had on that red dress.”
“The scrambled interview would have a different slant, of course. Not John Sutter as attorney, but as an unidentified source. We’ve done that before with organized crime reports. You’d talk about—”
“Do you have an apartment in town?”
Round three ended in a draw, and we went to round four, both optimistic. At seven bucks a pop in the Oak Bar, one of us was down fifty-six dollars already, plus tax and tip. There was a bowl of really good smoked almonds on the next table, but our table had a bowl of those disgusting goldfish pretzels. They’re all over the place.
She went on again, glancing at her watch a few times. I asked, “Are you doing the news tonight?”
“I don’t think I have a story tonight since you’re not cooperating.”
“Do you get paid anyway?”
“Maybe. Look, at least consider the news show at eleven-thirty. We have a show put together, but we need a focus.”
“Does that mean you won’t scramble my face?”
“I mean an
angle.
I want someone to speak intelligently about different aspects of this case. I don’t want any more so-called experts. I want someone who can give the American public the other side of this issue.”
“What other side?”
“The constitutionality of RICO, the government’s harassment of certain ethnic groups under the guise of justice, Ferragamo’s statements about a possible gang war between Hispanics and Italians. That sort of thing. I really want to get a different view on this thing.”
“Sounds like a good show. I’ll watch it.”
“Let’s go talk to Mr. Bellarosa. See if he wants to be interviewed. See if he wants his attorney to go on.”
“Stay here.’’ I stood. “See if you can get a bowl of smoked almonds.’’ I went out to a house phone and called the suite, but Bellarosa’s line was busy. I had no intention of presenting Ms. Alvarez’s offer to him, but I wanted to see if he was still in. I went back to the Oak Bar, sat, and informed Ms. Alvarez, “He says no. And no means no.’’ She had gotten the smoked almonds and I took a handful.
“Then how about you?’’ she asked. “Will you go on the air?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I take off the red dress.”
“Before or after I go on the air?”
She looked at her watch. “Before.’’ She added, “Fuck me, but don’t screw me.”
We both smiled. Well, dreams do come true if you let them. But this one looked like trouble. I stood. “Sorry. I can’t live up to my end of the deal. But it’s been fun.’’ I left her with the tab.
In the lobby, I checked for messages, and there were a few from TV, press, and radio people. Most criminal attorneys would parlay this opportunity into fame and fortune. But mob attorneys such as Jack Weinstein and John Sutter had to satisfy themselves with “No comment’’ and tainted money that could be seized under the RICO Act. Hey, who said this was going to be good for my career?
Anyway, I turned toward the lobby doors, intending to take the walk I had intended to take before, but once again I was waylaid by Jenny Alvarez. She said, “Let me ask you a question. A personal question, off the record.”
“I like the regular missionary position, but I’m open to anything.”
“What I want to know is, why did you get involved with Frank Bellarosa?”
“It’s a long story. Truly it is.”
“I mean, I saw your estate out there on Long Island. My God, I didn’t think people still lived like that.”
“I live in the guesthouse on the estate. You got that wrong on TV. And what difference does it make where I live?”
“It makes all the difference. We’re talking TV, John. Entertainment. You’re a star. You look like a star. You act like a star. You’re well dressed, you carry yourself well, and you speak extremely well. You’re a class act.”
“Thank you.”
“Even if you did stick me with the tab.”
“That’s the classiest thing I’ve done all week. Look . . . Jenny, you’re very attractive, and I’d like to take you upstairs, but I think you’re giving me a line of bull because you want something from me, and it’s not sex. And I can’t deliver, not sex or information. I’m a faithful husband, plus I’m impotent and simpleminded. So—”
“What’s the matter?”
Coming from the direction of the Oak Bar, staring at me, were Lenny and Vinnie. I guess they had seen me in the bar and wondered why I was having a drink with a TV reporter. Jenny Alvarez’s face is well-known in New York, and even cretins like Lenny and Vinnie watch the news. Anyway, Cretin One and Cretin Two were making stupid movements with their heads, indicating they wanted me to join them.
Ms. Alvarez inquired, “Who are those men?”
“Those are my law clerks.’’ Well, the best way to cover myself, of course, was to make it clear to Lenny and Vinnie that my intentions in speaking to Ms. Alvarez were sexual and not traitorous. How’s that for a rationalization? So, I put my arm around her and led her to the elevators. I said, “Let’s have a drink in my room.”
“All right.”
Lenny and Vinnie got on the elevator with us. As we rode up, I said to my pals, “This is Jenny Alvarez. She’s a famous TV reporter.”
They glanced at each other. Vinnie asked, “The don want to see her?”
“No, I want to see her. Alone, and I don’t want to be bothered.”
They both smirked, leered, and drooled. Class acts.
We got out on the eighth floor. Lenny unlocked the door to the suite, and we all entered. Bellarosa was lying on the couch, watching TV with his shoes off.
Jenny Alvarez went right up to him and introduced herself as he stood. Bellarosa said, “Oh, yeah. You’re the lady who gave this guy here a hard time. You friends now?”
She smiled. “Yes, we are.”
Well, the next thing, of course, was that she was going to start hammering poor Frank for an interview. Right? Wrong. She turned out to be the class act of the evening. She said, “John invited me in for a drink. I hope I’m not intruding on business.”
Bellarosa replied, “Nah. We’re on vacation.”
I said to Ms. Alvarez, “Let’s go to my room.’’ I snagged a bottle of scotch and a bucket of ice from the bar, and she took two glasses and a bottle of soda.
I showed her to my room, but as I began to follow her in, Bellarosa tapped me on the shoulder. He closed the door to my room and said to me, “You couldn’t get yourself a house whore? You have to bring this TV broad up here?”
I replied tersely, “It’s my business who I spend my free time with. But to set the record straight, my relationship with that woman is and will remain platonic.”
Bellarosa glanced at the scotch and ice bucket in my hands and smiled. I guess that did seem like a pretty idiotic statement from one man of the world to another. However, I added, “And it’s not a business relationship either.”
“Yeah? So no pillow talk. Okay? Watch what you say to her. Understand?”
I stepped toward the door, but he didn’t move aside. Instead, he said, “What’s on your mind, Counselor? What’s bugging you?”
“If you spoke to my wife tonight, and I assume you did, then you know.”
He stayed silent a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I spoke to her. But you got that all wrong. That’s a bad thing to be thinking about. That’s a very dangerous thing, when a guy gets something like that in his head. I’ve seen that kind of thing get people hurt and killed. So you just put that out of your head.’’ He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. “Okay?”
So I guess I was outvoted, two to one, on the question of a sexual triangle. I said, “All right, Frank. Subject closed. Open the door for me.”
He opened my bedroom door, and carrying the ice bucket and scotch, I went inside and kicked the door shut, then put the scotch and bucket on a cocktail table.
Jenny Alvarez said, “Are you sure I’m not interrupting business?”
“I’m sure. Make yourself comfortable. Have a seat.”
We sat in the two facing club chairs in the corner with the drinks on the cocktail table between us.
As I put ice in our glasses, I noticed that my hand was a little unsteady. Confronting one’s wife with an accusation of adultery was a little tense, but confronting the other man, especially when the guy was a killer, was not one of life’s better moments. But I felt strangely at peace, as if I’d gotten rid of a great burden and put it on the people who’d stuck me with it in the first place. I mean, if you analyzed it with cold logic, it really wasn’t my problem unless I chose to make it so. Still, I knew that the cold logic would eventually give way to more basic feelings such as heartache, pain, betrayal, jealousy, and other standard marital miseries. But tonight, I felt on top of things, and I had a drinking companion.
Jenny Alvarez said, “Nice suite. Crime pays.”
I replied, “Thanks for laying off Bellarosa.”
“I came up here to have a drink with you.”
“Right.’’ Cynic though I am, I believed her, and it felt good to believe what someone said for a change. I mixed us scotch and sodas, and we touched glasses and drank. I have to be honest with you; I was nervous. I said, “Don’t you have to be on the air or something?”
“You’re my only assignment tonight. But since you’re not going on the air, neither am I. But I’ll call in later.’’ She added, “Late enough so they can’t get me on something else before airtime. So I’m free tonight. Feels good.”
Well, I mean, she rearranged her whole schedule, you know, so she could have a drink with me. So what was I supposed to do? Kick her out after one drink? Get room service to deliver a Monopoly game? I cleared my throat. “I’m very flattered.”
She smiled. Oh, those lips. I have to tell you, I’m not usually into Latin beauties, but this woman was absolutely gorgeous. She had a soft brown complexion, dark eyes that sparkled, and thick black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. When she smiled, she had dimpled cheeks that I wanted to pinch.
She said, “You’re separated, I understand.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Well, I did.”
“From whom?”
“People out where you live.”
“Is that a fact? I didn’t even know that.”
She smiled. “Most men would just say yes to that question under these circumstances.”
“I’m not most men. I’m into truth. Are you married?”
“I was. I had a baby on TV. Remember? Two years ago.”
I seemed to recall some mawkish and tasteless coverage of the progress of her pregnancy and final delivery. But I don’t watch much TV news, and until now I didn’t even realize that this was the same woman. I replied, “I do remember that. TV cameras in the delivery room. Sort of vulgar.”
She shrugged. “Not for television.”
“I also seem to recall a proud father.”
“I’m divorced now.”
“So no more babies on television.”
She smiled. “Not for a while.”