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Authors: Nelson DeMille

The Gold Coast (37 page)

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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“At the same time?”
“But, Mr. Sutter, there is a price to pay for the thrill. There are consequences. Danger is dangerous.”
“I know that, Mr. Mancuso. Where did you get your law degree, if I may ask?”
“Georgetown.”
“Excellent. Can I double your salary, Mr. Mancuso? We need a Catholic. You have your twenty years in with the FBI.”
He smiled. “I’m not counting years, Mr. Sutter. I want to finish this job. If it takes another twenty years to smash the Mafia in New York, then, God willing, I’ll still be at it.”
“Please keep my offer in mind. It is a serious offer.”
“I appreciate the thought. It is seductive. But what I want to say to you, Mr. Sutter, is that evil is seductive, and—”
“What did you say?”
“Evil is seductive. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . .”
“And virtue is boring. Evil seems to pay better than virtue, but virtue, Mr. Sutter, is its own reward. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. I am an honest man. I am doing nothing dishonest with Frank Bellarosa.”
Mr. Mancuso put his jacket on and gathered his shoes and socks. “But being involved with Frank Bellarosa is unethical, immoral, and unwise. Very unwise.’’ He stepped closer to me in the small galley where we were standing. “Listen to me, Mr. Sutter. Forget that I asked you to bug Bellarosa’s house, and that he may be innocent of this particular charge. The man is
evil
. I like you, Mr. Sutter, and I want to give you good advice. Tell Frank Bellarosa to go away and stay away from you and your wife.’’ He actually grabbed me by the arm and put his face near mine. “I am the voice of truth and reality. Listen to my voice. That man will destroy you and your family. And it will be
your
fault, Mr. Sutter, not his fault. For the love of God, tell him to leave you alone.”
He was absolutely right, of course, so I said, “Thank you. I like you, Mr. Mancuso. You restore my faith in humanity, but not in much else. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
Mr. Mancuso released my arm. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sutter. Have a pleasant day.’’ He went up the companionway and disappeared on deck.
After a minute, I followed and saw him on the pier slipping into his shoes. There were a few other people around now, and they were all watching this man in a suit who had come off my boat. At least a few people probably thought that Mr. Mancuso was a friend of Mr. Bellarosa’s—as was John Sutter—and that Sutter and this Mafia fellow had just dumped a few bodies at sea.
I called out to Mr. Mancuso, “Ferragamo and Bellarosa belong in the same cell. You and I should go sailing again.”
He waved to me as he disappeared behind a big, berthed Allied fifty-five footer that I would buy if I had three hundred thousand dollars.
I got some polish from the locker and shined up a brass cleat until it gleamed in the sunlight.

 

 

Nineteen
“Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’’ quoteth Frank Bellarosa. “But,’’ he added, “never more than fifteen percent of your net.”
I give my clients similar advice, but I recommend seventeen percent of the adjusted gross, and I charge for my time. So, I suppose, does Frank Bellarosa, in a manner of speaking.
It was Friday evening, and I was at my usual table in the cocktail lounge of The Creek. It was crowded, and everything was as I described it on an earlier Friday evening, except that sitting across from me was the Bishop.
Without even looking around, I could feel eyeballs bouncing between me and my friend Frank. Lester Remsen was at the next table, and with him were Randall Potter and Allen DePauw, who you may recall was providing the government with a forward observation post across the road from Alhambra.
The Reverend Mr. Hunnings was also there, sitting with three other men at the corner table near the big picture window, a sports jacket thrown over his golfing clothes and a glass of red wine in his hand. Episcopalian and Catholic clergy, I’ve noticed, drink mostly red wine in public, which I suppose is okay for the image, because red wine is served at the altar, unlike cold beer.
At another nearby table, which apparently was reserved for people with Dutch blood, were Jim Roosevelt, Martin Vandermeer, and Cyril Vanderbilt, the latter I guess having come over from Piping Rock for a night of slumming.
The place was getting more crowded, and in the words of an old rock-Zen lyric, everybody there was there. Plus some. I had the bizarre thought that the word had gotten out that Sutter had brought Bellarosa up to the club, and everyone had turned out to watch. No, no. It was just a typical Friday night.
Frank snapped his fingers at old Charlie, a former dining-room waiter, who after having served his one-millionth meal was put out to pasture in the cocktail lounge where he could drink, smoke, talk, and take it easy like the club members. Charlie, of course, ignored the snapped fingers, and Frank snapped again and called out, “Hey!”
I winced and said, “I’ll get us drinks.’’ I stood and walked to the bar.
Gustav, the bartender, had my martini going before I reached the rail. I said to him, “And a rye and ginger ale.’’ Gustav’s smirk told me what he thought of that drink.
Lester came up beside me, and I supposed he had been delegated with a few pokes in the ribs to approach me. “Hello, John,’’ said Lester.
“Hello, Lester,’’ said John.
“Who’s that fellow you’re with?”
“That’s Antonio Pugliesi, the world-renowned opera singer.”
“It looks like Frank Bellarosa, John.”
“Remarkable resemblance.”
“John . . . this is not good.”
The rye and ginger came, and I signed for the drinks.
Lester went on, “What’s this all about, John?”
“He’s my neighbor.’’ I added, “He wanted to come up here.’’ Which was the truth. It certainly wasn’t my idea. But I found that I was annoyed with Lester for questioning me on the subject.
Lester inquired, “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Yes, we are. Susan and Mrs. Bellarosa will be here shortly.”
“Look . . . John, as a member of the club board, and as your friend—”
“And my cousin.”
“Yes . . . that, too . . . I think I should tell you that some people here tonight are unhappy, uncomfortable.”
“Everyone looks happy and comfortable.”
“You know what I mean. I understand the position you’re in, and I suppose drinks are all right, every once in a great while.’’ He added
sotto voce
, “Like we do with some minorities. And even lunch now and then is all right. But not dinner, John, and not with the women.”
“Lester,’’ I replied curtly, “you tried to involve me in fraud, forgery, and embezzlement just a few months ago. So why don’t you get off your high horse and go fuck yourself.’’ I took the drinks and returned to my table.
As I sipped my martini, I found that my hand was a bit unsteady.
Frank stirred his highball. “You forgot the cherry.”
“I’m not a fucking waiter.”
Frank Bellarosa, as you might imagine, is not used to being spoken to like that. But that being the case, he didn’t know what to say and just stirred his drink.
I was not in the best of moods, as you may have guessed. I think that having a fight with an IRS man is the mood-altering equivalent of having a fight with your wife. I inquired of Mr. Bellarosa, “So, what would
you
do? Pay the guy off? Threaten to blow his brains out?”
Bellarosa’s eyes widened as though he were shocked by what I’d said, and I found that almost comical. Bellarosa replied, “You never,
never
hit a federal agent.”
“If you met Mr. Novac, you’d make an exception.”
He smiled but said nothing.
I asked, “So, should I bribe him?”
“No. You’re an honest man. Don’t do nothing you don’t usually do. It don’t work.’’ He added, “Anyway, the guy’s probably wired and thinks you are, too.”
I nodded. In truth, I’d find it less repugnant to shoot Mr. Novac than offer him a bribe.
I regarded Frank Bellarosa, dressed in his standard uniform of blazer and turtleneck. He must have seen that outfit in a clothing ad with a mansion in the background and decided to stick with it, changing only the colors. The blazer was green this time, and the turtleneck canary yellow. In itself, the outfit would not draw much attention because after the tweed season around here most of the Wasps break out their silly summer colors and look like tropical birds until Labor Day. At least Bellarosa hadn’t walked in wearing a gray, iridescent sharkskin suit. I said to him, “Ditch the Rolex, Frank.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Some people can get away with it, you can’t. Get a sports watch, and get some penny loafers or Docksides. You know what they are?”
“Sure.”
I didn’t think he did. I finished my martini, got Charlie’s attention without snapping my fingers, and ordered another round. “And a maraschino cherry for this gentleman.”
“Would the gentleman like a green or red cherry, sir?’’ Charlie asked me, as if I’d brought my bulldog in and ordered him a saucer of milk.
“Red!’’ Bellarosa barked.
Charlie shuffled off.
A number of women had shown up to sit with or collect their husbands, and I noticed Beryl Carlisle now, at a table with her spouse, what’s-his-name. She was in profile, and I watched her awhile, sucking on a drink stirrer. She did it well. She looked toward me, as if she knew right where I was, and we exchanged tentative smiles, sort of like, “Are we at it again?”
Bellarosa looked at Beryl, then at me. “That’s a nice piece of goods there. I think she’s got wet pants for you.”
I was happy to get a second opinion on this, but I informed him, “We don’t talk sex here.”
He smiled. “No? Whaddaya talk here? Money?”
“We talk business but never money.”
“How the hell do you do that?”
“It’s not easy. Listen, I want the name of your tax lawyer, Frank. Not the one you used when you went up for two years, the one you use now who’s keeping you out of jail.”
The drinks came and Bellarosa dangled the horrible dyed cherry by its stem and bit it off.
“Your tax lawyer,’’ I prompted.
He chewed on the cherry. “You don’t need no lawyer. Lawyers are for when you gotta go to court. You got to head this off.”
“Okay. How?”
“You got to understand
why
before you know how.”
“I understand
why.
I don’t want to fork over three hundred thousand dollars and go to jail for a few years. That’s why.”
“But you got to understand
why.
Why you don’t want to do that.”
“Because it was an honest mistake.”
“No such thing, pal.”
I shrugged and went back to my martini. I glanced around the room, sort of taking attendance. I caught a few people looking away, but a few, such as Martin Vandermeer and the good Father Hunnings, held eye contact in an unpleasant way. Beryl, on the other hand, gave me a wider smile as if we were on the right track again. I had the feeling that if Beryl Carlisle was, as Bellarosa grossly suggested, secreting, then it had something to do with my proximity to Mr. Bellarosa. Beryl is one of those women who was once wild, married safe, has safe affairs, but still loves the bad boys. I guess I was now the best of both worlds for her; kind of a preppie thug.
I looked back at Bellarosa. I guess we were at an impasse until I figured out the why thing. I tried to recall some of his philosophy of life as imparted to me at Alhambra. I said, “Novac has it in for me personally, that’s why. I screwed his wife once and left her in a motel up in the Catskills during a snowstorm.”
Bellarosa smiled. “Now you’re getting closer.’’ He scooped up some of those awful pretzel goldfish from a bowl on the table and popped them in his mouth. I had intended to write to the club manager about pretzel goldfish, but after tonight, I’d be well advised not to complain about anything.
Bellarosa swallowed the goldfish and said to me, “Okay, let me tell you how I see it. In this country, this very nice democracy we got here, people don’t understand that there’s a class war going on all the time. You don’t believe that about your country? Believe it, pal. All history is a struggle between three classes—high, middle, and low. I learned that from a history teacher at La Salle. You understand what the guy was saying?”
I guess so, Frank. I went to Yale, for God’s sake. I asked him, “Where does the criminal class fit in?”
“Same shit. You don’t think there’s different classes of criminals? You think I’m the same as some
melanzane
crack pusher?”
Actually, I sort of did, but now that he put it in historical and economic terms, I guess I didn’t. Maybe I had more in common with Frank Bellarosa than I did with the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, for instance, who didn’t like me or my money. I said, “My gatekeeper’s wife, Ethel, believes in class struggle. I’ll get you together with her someday. Should be fun.”
BOOK: The Gold Coast
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