The Gold Coast (28 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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That wouldn’t get us off on the right foot at all. I realized I shouldn’t have come here, but I knew I would probably bump into Mrs. Bellarosa eventually. Though if enough time had been allowed to pass, she might forget what I looked like, or I could grow a mustache.
With that thought, an idea came to me. As nonchalantly as I could, I took my reading glasses out of my breast pocket and put them on. I pulled a few bottles toward me and began reading the labels.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Susan looking at me. She asked, “Interesting?”
“Yes. Listen to this. ‘Capella is a unique liqueur, produced from the nicciole, which is a native Italian nut. Capella is produced and bottled in Torino—’”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not yet.’’ I poured another sambuca for both of us.
“That’s enough.”
“He said not to be shy.”
We drank in silence a few more minutes. The light on the telephone was out now, but then the phone rang once and was picked up somewhere, and a line button stayed lit. I pictured the don in the kitchen, supervising coffee and dessert while he was doing business on the phone, writing names on the wall of people to be killed.
“Are you going to keep your glasses on?”
I turned back to Susan. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why is it that you never painted this place?’’ I asked, sort of changing the subject.
She seemed momentarily confused by the sudden shift but replied, “I suppose it was too sad. But I did take a roll of color slides when I was here with Jessica. Mostly of the palm court. You should have seen what it looked like.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, I’ll show you the slides. Why are you wearing—”
“Tell me what it looked like when you were here.”
She shrugged. “Well . . . the glass dome was broken, and water had gotten in. There was
grass
growing on the floor, lichen mushrooms, moss on the walls, and ferns growing out of cracks in the stucco. An incredibly good study of ruin and decay.’’ She added, “I thought I might paint it from the slides.”
I looked at her. “I do not want you selling them a painting.”
She replied, “I thought I’d give it to them as our housewarming gift.”
I shook my head.
“They would appreciate it, John. Italians love art.”
“Sure.’’ I cocked my head toward the Sacred Heart of Jesus print on the wall. “Listen, Susan, that is much too extravagant. It could take you months to complete a canvas. And you
never
gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple.”
“He commissioned it. This is a different situation. I
want
to paint Alhambra’s palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favor for the stable.”
“No, I’m all evened up with him on favors—I gave him free advice. And I’ll give you some free advice—don’t get involved.”
“
I
don’t feel we have repaid the favor, and if I want to—”
“What happened to the Casa Bellarosa sign in mother-of-pearl? Better yet, why don’t you bake them a cake? No—maybe that’s not a good idea. How about a bushel of horse manure for his garden?”
“Are you finished?”
“No.”
But before we could have a fight, Mr. Frank Bellarosa burst through the swinging door, rear end first, carrying a big electric coffee urn. “Okay, here’s the coffee.’’ He set the urn on the sideboard and plugged it in. “We got espresso, too, if anybody wants.’’ He took the seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of capella. “You try this yet?’’ he asked me.
“No,’’ I replied, “but I know that it’s made from the nicciole nut.”
“Yeah. Like a hazelnut. How’d you know that?”
I smiled at Susan and answered Bellarosa. “I read the label.” “Oh, yeah.’’ He took some roasted coffee beans out of the dish and dropped two into Susan’s glass and two into mine. He said, “You either put no beans in, or you put three. Never more and never less.”
Damned if I was going to ask him why, but Susan bit. “Why?’’ she asked.
“Tradition,’’ Bellarosa replied. “No—superstition,’’ he admitted with a soft chuckle. “The Italians are very superstitious. The three beans are for good luck.”
“That’s fascinating,’’ Susan said.
Actually, it was bullshit. I asked Bellarosa, “Are you superstitious?”
He smiled. “I believe in good luck and bad luck. Don’t you?”
“No,’’ I replied, “I’m a Christian.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything,’’ I informed him.
“Yeah?’’ He thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. But with the Italians, you got evil omens, evil signs, good omens, three coins in the fountain, three beans in the sambuca, and all that stuff.”
“That’s pagan,’’ I said.
He nodded. “Yeah. But you got to respect it. You just don’t know.’’ He looked at me. “You just don’t know.’’ He changed the subject. “Anyway, I got no cappuccino. I bought a beautiful machine direct from a restaurant when I was in Naples a few months ago. I had it shipped, but I think it got swiped at Kennedy. The guy in Naples says he sent it, and I believe him, so I asked around Kennedy, and nobody knows nothing. Right? And the Feds complain about organized crime there. You think organized crime steals coffee machines? No. I’ll tell you who steals there—the
melanzane
.’’ He looked at Susan.
“Capisce?”
“The eggplants?”
Bellarosa smiled. “Yeah. The eggplants. The blacks. And the Spanish, and the punk airport rent-a-cops.
They
steal. But whenever there’s a problem anyplace, it’s organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It’s
dis
organized crime that’s screwing up this country. The hopheads and the crazies.
Capisce?”
He looked at both of us.
I was, finally, at a loss for words after this bizarre monologue, so what could I say but, “Capish.”
Bellarosa laughed. “Ca-peesh. Have another.’’ He filled my glass with sambuca, and I tried the word again, but this time in my mind.
Capisce.
Susan, who as I said is a little naive in some ways, asked the head of New York’s largest crime family, “Did you report the theft to customs?”
“Sure.’’ Bellarosa chuckled. “That’s all I need. Right? The papers get hold of that story and they’d laugh me out of town.”
“What do you mean?’’ Susan asked.
Bellarosa shot me a glance, then said to Susan, “They think I steal from the airport.”
“Oh, I see. That
would
be ironic.”
“Yeah. Ironic.’’ Bellarosa sipped his capella delicately. “Ah. Very nice.’’ He looked at Susan. “My wife’s coming. She has to make sure everything is perfect. I said to her, ‘Relax. These are our neighbors. They’re good people.’” He looked at me. “But you know how women are. Everything’s a big deal. Right?”
“No comment,’’ I replied wisely. Just then the swinging door opened. I adjusted my eyeglasses and prepared to stand, but it was not Mrs. Bellarosa. It was a homely young woman in a plain black dress and a maid’s apron, carrying a tray. She placed the tray on the sideboard, then set the table with cups and saucers, silverware, napkins, and such. She turned and left wordlessly, with no bow, curtsy, or even an Italian salute.
Bellarosa said, “That’s Filomena. She’s from the other side.”
“The other side of what?’’ I inquired.
“The other side. Italy. She doesn’t speak much English, which is all right with me. But these
paesan’
pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language.’’ He added, “Poor Filomena, she’s so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn’t learn English, I’d give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I’ll have to find somebody blind for her.”
I looked at Bellarosa. This was indeed the don, the
padrone,
in his element, running people’s lives for them, being both cruel and generous.
Susan asked him, “Do you speak Italian?”
He made a little motion with his hand.
“Cosí, cosí.’’
He added, “I get by. The
Napoletan’
understand me. That’s what I am.
Napoletano.
But the
Sicilian
’—the Sicilians—who can understand them? They’re not Italian.’’ He asked Susan, “Where did you learn Italian?”
“Why do you think I know Italian?”
“Dominic told me.’’ He smiled. “He said to me—in Italian—‘Padrone, this American lady with red hair speaks Italian!’” Bellarosa laughed. “He was amazed.”
Susan smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak it well. It was my language in school. I took it because I majored in fine arts.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m going to test you later.”
And so we chatted for another ten minutes or so, and I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t entertaining. The man knew how to hold court and tell stories, and although nothing of any importance or even intelligence was said, Bellarosa was lively and animated, using more hand gestures and facial expression in ten minutes than I use in a year. He filled everyone’s glass with sambuca, then changed his mind and insisted we try amaretto, which he poured into fresh glasses while he continued to talk.
This was a man who obviously enjoyed life, which, I suppose, was understandable for a person who knew firsthand how suddenly it could be cut short. I asked him bluntly, “Do you have bodyguards here in the house, or just Anthony out there?”
He looked at me and didn’t reply for a long time, then answered, “Mr. Sutter, a man of wealth in this country, as in Italy, must protect himself and his family against kidnapping and terrorism.”
“Not in Lattingtown,’’ I assured him. “We have very strict village ordinances here.”
Bellarosa smiled. “We have a very strict rule, too, Mr. Sutter, and maybe you know about it. The rule is this—you never touch a man in his own house or in front of his family. So nobody in this neighborhood should worry about things like that. Okay?”
The conversation had turned interesting. I replied, “Perhaps you can attend the next village meeting and assure everyone for the record.”
Bellarosa looked at me but said nothing.
Feeling reckless, I pushed on. “So then, why do you have security here?”
He leaned toward me and spoke softly. “You asked me what I learned at La Salle. I’ll tell you one thing I learned. No matter what kind of peace treaties you got, you post a twenty-four-hour guard. That keeps everybody honest, and makes people sleep better. Don’t worry about it.’’ He patted my shoulder. “You’re safe here.”
I smiled in return and pointed out helpfully, “You’ve got double protection, Mr. Bellarosa, compliments of the American taxpayer.
Capisce?”
He laughed, then snorted. “Yeah. They watch the front gate, but I watch my ass.’’ He inquired, “So, you know about that, do you, Mr. Sutter? How’d you know about that?”
I was about to reply, but I felt a kick in the ankle. A kick in the ankle, of course, does not mean “You’re being so charming and witty, my dear, please go on.”
Susan asked our host, “Can I help Mrs. Bellarosa in the kitchen?”
“No, no. She’s okay. She makes a big deal. I’ll tell you what she’s doing now, because I know. She’s stuffing cannoli. You know, when you buy them already stuffed, they sometimes get soggy, even in the good bakeries. So my wife, she gets the shells separate, and she gets the cream or makes it herself, and she stuffs, stuffs, stuffs. With a spoon.”
Susan nodded, a bit uncertainly, I thought.
It sort of surprised me, I guess, that this man was so artless and ingenuous, and that his wife was in the kitchen of their mansion stuffing pastry with a spoon. He wasn’t putting on any airs for the Sutters, that was for sure. I didn’t know if I was touched or annoyed.
Anyway, the door opened again, and in came a full-bodied blonde, carrying a huge tray, heaped with enough pastries to feed a medium-size Chinese city. I could barely see the woman’s face, but her arms were stretched way out so that the pastry could clear her breasts, and I knew in a flash it must be Mrs. B. I stood, and so did Bellarosa, who took the tray from the woman and said, “This is my wife, Anna.’’ He put the tray on the table. “Anna, this is Mr. and Mrs. Sutter.”
Anna brushed her hands on her hips and smiled. “Hello.’’ She and Susan shook hands, then she turned to me.
Our eyes met, our hands touched, our lips smiled, her brow wrinkled. I said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.’’ She kept looking at me, and I could almost hear the old synapses making connections between her narrowed eyes. Click, click, click. She asked, “Didn’t we meet or something?”
It was the “or something’’ that caused me some anxiety. “I think I saw you in Loparo’s,’’ I said, mentioning the name of the Italian market in Locust Valley in which I wouldn’t be caught dead.

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