The Gold Coast (27 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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“That’s very philosophical, Susan. But let’s stick to the subject of vegetables and cement tonight.”
Susan whispered to me, “If you play your cards right tonight, Counselor, you may be a
consigliere
before the evening’s done.”
“I am not amused,’’ I informed her.
“Well, then, if he pinches my ass, I want you to slug him.”
“If he pinches
my
ass, I’ll slug him. Your ass is your business, darling.’’ I pinched her behind, and she jumped and giggled as the heavy oak door swung open to reveal don Bellarosa himself. He was smiling. “
Benvenuto a nostra casa
.”
“
Grazie
,’’ Susan replied, smiling back.
“Come in, come in,’’ said Mr. Bellarosa in plain English.
I shook hands with my host on my way in, and Susan got a kiss on both cheeks, Italian style. This was going to be a long night.
We entered a cavernous colonnaded vestibule, a sort of palm court or atrium as they say now. The floor of the court was red quarry tile, and all around the court were pink marble columns that held up stucco arches. Without gawking, I could see a second tier of columns and arches above the first, from which protruded wrought-iron balconies. All the lighting was indirect and dramatic, and covering the entire court was a dome of glass and iron filigree. More interesting, I thought, was that on both levels of the colonnade, hung amid the flowering plants and the potted palms, were dozens of cages in which were brightly plumed tropical birds, squawking and chirping away. The whole thing seemed to me a cross between a public aviary in Rio de Janeiro and an upscale florist shop in a Florida mall.
Mr. Bellarosa, always the subtle and self-effacing gentleman, said, “Hell of a front hall, right?”
“It’s beautiful,’’ Susan said breathlessly.
Bellarosa looked at me expectantly.
I inquired, “How do you get the bird shit out of the cages up there?”
Susan threw me a mean look, but Frank explained. It had to do with a thirty-foot ladder on wheels that he’d had specially built. Very interesting.
Bellarosa looked me over. “You’re all dressed up.”
I realized he had never seen me in my Brooks Brothers’ armor, and lest he think I had dressed for him, I said, “I came directly from work.”
“Ah.”
Bellarosa, I should mention, was dressed casually in gray slacks and a white polo shirt, which accented a new tan. I snuck a look at his shoes and saw he was wearing sandals with socks. As if this wasn’t bad enough, the socks were yellow. I wanted to draw Susan’s attention to Bellarosa’s feet but didn’t have the opportunity. Around here, incidentally, when we have people to our home, the men usually wear tie and jacket to make sure they’re not comfortable. The women wear whatever women wear. In this case, I found that I was slightly annoyed about the clingy red dress. But, she looked good in red, and I was both proud and jealous.
Bellarosa had turned his attention to Susan and asked, “How’s the barn coming?”
“The . . . it’s coming apart quite well,’’ Susan replied. “But can they put it back together?”
Bellarosa laughed politely. Haw, haw. He said, “Dominic knows his stuff. But he might sneak in a few Roman arches on you.”
They shared a laugh. Haw, haw. Ha, ha.
“Come on,’’ said Mr. Bellarosa, motioning for us to follow. “Why are we standing here?”
Because you made us stand here, Frank.
We followed our host to the left through one of the archways of the palm court and entered a long, empty room that smelled of fresh paint. Bellarosa stopped and asked me, “What is this room?”
“Is this a test?”
“No, I mean, I can’t figure it out. We got a living room, we got a dining room, we got rooms, rooms, rooms. What’s this?”
I looked around. “Not a bathroom.”
Susan interjected, “It’s . . . actually
this
is the dining room.”
Bellarosa looked at her. “You sure?”
“Yes. I was in this house when the last family lived here.”
“That stupid decorator . . . then what’s the room over there?’’ He pointed through an archway.
“That is the morning room,’’ Susan informed him.
“Morning room?”
I could have had fun with that one, but I left it alone.
“It doesn’t matter,’’ Susan assured him. “These old houses are used in different ways now. Whatever works best for you.”
“Except,’’ I said helpfully, “you can’t cook in the bathroom, or go to the bathroom in—”
“John,’’ Susan interrupted, “we get the idea, darling.”
We followed Mr. Bellarosa through the newly discovered dining room, then through the archway that led to the morning room. It was a rather large room, right off the butler’s pantry, which in turn led to the kitchen. Bellarosa seemed not in the least embarrassed to be entertaining us in the morning room—sometimes called the breakfast room—since, until very recently, he thought it was the dining room. But to be fair, I could see how a peasant might get confused. He pulled out two chairs at one end of a long dining table. “Sit,’’ he commanded.
We sat. Mr. Bellarosa went to a sideboard from which he took a tray of cordials and crystal glasses that he set on the table in front of us. “Here. Help yourselves. Don’t be shy. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He went through a swinging door into the butler’s pantry, and I watched his retreating back as he headed for the kitchen. The door swung closed. Five, four, three, two, one—
“John, you were a bore.”
“Thank you.’’ I examined one of the bottles. “Sambuca, my dear?”
“Behave. I’m serious.”
“All right. I don’t want to get us killed.’’ I poured us both a glass of sambuca. There was a plate of coffee beans on the tray, and I dropped a bean into each glass. I raised my glass to Susan. “Cheers.”
“
Centanni
.”
We drank. I asked, “What was that about the Cosa Nostra?”
“
Nostra casa
, John. Our house. Welcome to our house.”
“Oh. Why didn’t he say so?’’ I looked around the room as I sipped my cordial. The room was oriented to the south and east like most morning rooms to catch the rising sun at breakfast. Nowadays, this room in a mansion is used for almost all family meals as it is usually located close to the kitchen, but I suspected the Bellarosas ate in the kitchen and did their formal entertaining in the breakfast room, or perhaps the basement.
The south and east walls of the room were all windows, and as I was looking out, colored floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the newly reclaimed gardens in hues of red, blue, and green. I said to Susan, “The motion detectors must have picked up an approaching hit squad. If you hear gunshots, hit the floor.”
“John.”
“Sorry.”
“And keep your voice low, please.”
I grunted and poured two more. I like sambuca. It reminds me of penny licorice sticks. I surveyed the rest of the room. The furnishings were a sort of dark, formal Mediterranean, I guess, and seemed to go with the rest of the house.
Susan, too, was evaluating the place and commented softly, “Not bad. He said they had a decorator, but they’re not using anyone around here, or I’d know about it.”
“That’s why they’re not using anyone around here, Susan, or you’d even know Mrs. Bellarosa’s bra size.”
She smiled. “Well, whoever they’re using doesn’t know a dining room from a breakfast room.”
“But you straightened that out in your tactful way,’’ I said.
She laughed. “What was I supposed to say?”
I shrugged and poured my second or third. I was mellowing out a bit and decided to stop baiting Susan, who was nearly blameless for our being there. I asked her, “Did anyone buy this place after the Barretts left?”
“No. It just sat vacant.’’ She stayed silent a moment, then added, “In my junior year when I was home for spring break, Katie Barrett called me from the city. I hadn’t heard from her in years. I met her at Locust Valley station and drove her here. We walked around for a long while, talking about when we were kids. It was sort of sad.”
I didn’t say anything.
Susan continued, “Then, a few years later, this place was infested with squatters. Some sort of hippie commune. They lived here without water or electricity, and in the winter they burned whatever wood they could find in the fireplaces. Everyone on Grace Lane complained, but the police took their time about getting them out.”
I nodded. The sixties were sort of a test to see how much anarchy the system could take, and as it turned out, the system backed off.
Susan added, “I remember my father was angry with the police. He told them that the bank didn’t take so long to get the Barretts out and they owned the place.”
Again I nodded. There was certainly a moral there, and it had something to do with authority versus power, with voluntary compliance versus come and get me, pigs. Frank understood that. I said, “Well, maybe the police will run Mr. Bellarosa off.”
“Not if he pays his taxes, John.”
“True.’’ I guess I came into the picture here after the hippies, and I recall that Alhambra was used a few times for designer showcases. Although I never availed myself of the opportunity to see what these strange people do to the great houses, I’ve been told by other men that interior decorators with cans of mauve paint and rolls of iridescent wallpaper could do more damage to a vacant mansion than a hundred vandals.
I recalled, also, that in the middle and late seventies there were a few charity functions held at Alhambra, either in the house or on the half-acre patio in the summer. If the plumbing still works in these old mansions, and if the Long Island Lighting Company is paid up front for turning on the juice, then these houses can be rented from the bank or the county on a short-term basis for charity events, tours, designer showcases, movie sets, and such. So homes that once held Vanderbilts, Astors, and the like are now available to anyone with a few bucks and a need for floor space.
Susan once went to one of these charity things without me—a Save the Beluga Caviar Sturgeon benefit or something—but this was the first time I’d ever actually been inside Alhambra, though I knew that in the last fifteen years or so, it had really fallen apart—its plumbing gone, windows broken, roof leaking—becoming unfit for interior decorators and even the charity ball crowd, who will usually dance and eat anywhere for a good cause.
In most respects, Alhambra’s history is not much different from a few dozen other great houses that I know of. I asked Susan, “Didn’t you tell me you were here right before Bellarosa bought this place?”
“Yes, last autumn with Jessica Reid, the realtor, and a few other ladies. We were just snooping around. Jessica had a key, though you didn’t need one because half the padlocks were broken.”
“I guess none of you bought the place.”
“It was really in awful condition. There were squirrels in the house, and birds had built nests all over.”
“There are still birds in the house.”
“Well, anyway, it was sad, you know, John, because I remember it as a happy, loving home when the Barretts lived here. But now it’s coming alive again. It’s amazing what a few hundred thousand dollars can do.”
“Yes, it is, which is nothing. Try a few million. And he’s not done yet. Maybe this place will be what brings down the don. Join the home improvement club, Frank. Bottomless pit.”
“See, you two have something in common already.”
“Yes. He told me that Mrs. Bellarosa wants to move the reflecting pool six feet to the left.”
“John.”
“Sorry.’’ I had another drink. Maybe the sambuca wasn’t mellowing me. Maybe it makes people mean. I glanced at my watch. More than five minutes had gone by, and I was beginning to wonder if Bellarosa was pulling his Mussolini routine. Then I noticed a telephone on a small stand across the room. It was an elaborate instrument with several lines, one of which was lit. The don was dialing and dealing.
I looked around the room again and saw now above the sideboard a cheaply framed print. It was Christ, his arms outstretched, with a bright-red heart—a stylized exoskeletal organ—shining from his breast. At the bottom of the print were the words
Sacred Heart of Jesus.
I drew Susan’s attention to the picture.
She studied it a moment, then observed, “It looks very Catholic.”
“Looks like a pistol target.”
“Don’t be blasphemous.’’ Susan turned back to me. “You see, they’re religious people. A religious person wouldn’t be mixed up with’’—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“with drugs, prostitution, or any of that.”
“I never thought of that,’’ I said dryly.
I must admit that despite my cavalier attitude, I was a bit concerned about meeting Mrs. Bellarosa. Not that I’d done anything particularly offensive or threatening—I’d just growled at her on my hands and knees—but that might be hard to explain if she called me out on it. Or worse yet, she might be the hysterical type. I had a mental picture of her screaming and pointing at me. “Frank! Frank! He’s the one! He’s the one! Kill him!”

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