Authors: Nelson DeMille

The Gold Coast (49 page)

BOOK: The Gold Coast

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Mr. Mancuso informed me, “There are other factors at work, Mr. Sutter. Bellarosa is a unique personality. He does not make decisions the way you or I would. This man fought his way to the top of New York’s largest crime family, and he killed or caused to be killed at least nine men whom he perceived to be a danger to him, or who were, in fact, a danger to him, or men who were simply in his way during his pursuit of the emperor’s crown. Personalities like this exist, of course, and history is full of them. Frank Bellarosa is a power freak. The money is incidental. Do you see?”

“I understand.”

“Understand, too, that he
likes
living on the edge. You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Sutter, but in his primitive way he enjoys being the target of assassins. His enemies can pay him no higher compliment than trying to kill him.
Capisce?
”

I smiled involuntarily. “
Capisce
.”

“No, you say
capisco. I
understand.
Capisce?
”

“Capisco.”

“Very good. But work on your accent. I understand your wife speaks some Italian. Maybe she can help you.”

I didn’t reply. In fact, neither of us spoke for a while. As the
Paumanok
drifted, I realized that I should, at some point, let Mr. Mancuso know that I was representing the man who was the subject of our conversation. But as he hadn’t asked, and since nothing of a confidential nature was being discussed yet, I let it slide. I wanted to know more about my client, and since my client wouldn’t even admit that there was a Mafia, let alone that he was the emperor of it, I figured that Mr. Mancuso was my best source. I asked, “How big is his empire, actually? Not money, but people.”

Mr. Mancuso studied me awhile, then replied, “Well, again, these are estimates, but we think that Bellarosa controls the activities of three thousand men.”

“That’s a big company.”

“Yes. And at the core of his organization are three hundred of what we call ‘made’ men. Men who have made their bones. Do you understand what that means?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“And all of these hard-core mafiosi are Italian, mostly Sicilian or Neapolitan.”

“And which are you, Mr. Mancuso?”

“Neither, Mr. Sutter. I am a true Roman on both sides of my family.”

“Interesting. And Mr. Ferragamo?”

He smiled. “I hear that his ancestors were from Florence. They are very cultured there. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just trying to read the subtexts, Mr. Mancuso.”

“I assure you, Mr. Sutter, there are no subtexts.”

“Perhaps not. But tell me about these Sicilians and Neapolitans.”

He hesitated a moment, then replied, “I suppose it might matter where Bellarosa’s crime family had its ancestral origins, in that there are historical and family ties that we must consider and comprehend in order to effectively prosecute these people.”

“I see. So there are about three hundred hard-core members, and about three thousand others.”

“Yes. Associates. At the top is Frank Bellarosa. He has an underboss, a man named Salvatore D’Alessio, aka Sally Da-da, who is Bellarosa’s wife’s sister’s husband. Sort of his brother-in-law. Family relationships are very important to these people. When they can’t determine if a bloodline exists, they try to determine if they are related by some marriage or another. Lacking anything there, they will form ties and bonds through christenings. You know, godparents and godchildren. These ties are important because they are used to claim and to reinforce loyalty. Loyalty and respect are number one and number two on the agenda. After that, everything else follows. That’s why they have been so incredibly difficult to penetrate, and so successful for a century.”

I nodded. “And why pale Wasps like me might tend to glamorize and romanticize them.”

“Perhaps.”

“But you see them more clearly, Mr. Mancuso.”

“I believe I do.”

“Good. So, there is an underboss. Where does the
consigliere
fit in?”

“He is next in the chain. Their hierarchy is somewhat unique in that respect. This trusted advisor sometimes has more power than the underboss. He is the one who relays instructions to the capos, who are in charge of the gangs. Why do you want to know this?”

“I’m just trying to get a picture of my next-door neighbor. Where does a man like Jack Weinstein fit in?”

“Weinstein? Bellarosa’s attorney?”

“Yes. Where does he fit in?”

“Well, if the attorney is not Italian, and I presume Jack Weinstein is not, then he occupies some sort of limbo. In Weinstein’s case, he has beaten two serious criminal charges for Frank Bellarosa, before Bellarosa became the boss. Bellarosa, therefore, would be grateful, and he might respect Jack Weinstein, the way you or I would be grateful to and respectful of a surgeon who twice saved our lives. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you ask about Jack Weinstein, Mr. Sutter?”

“Professional curiosity. Also, I’m a little tired of the tax business.”

Mancuso smiled, but it was a worried smile. He said, “This is all abstract, Mr. Sutter. Let me tell you a story about Mr. Bellarosa. There are many, but I’ll tell you one that I can swear to. When Bellarosa was a capo, he summoned a man named Vito Posilico to meet him in his social club on Mott Street. When Mr. Posilico arrived, Frank Bellarosa ordered coffee and they sat and talked. Bellarosa then accused Posilico of withholding money from the proceeds of an extortion of a building contractor. The contractor, an honest businessman incidentally, paid Posilico fifty thousand dollars for a guarantee of labor peace during the time the builder was working on a big project. Bellarosa had taken his half share from Posilico—twenty-five thousand dollars—but now claimed that Posilico had shaken the contractor down for one hundred thousand dollars. Posilico denied this, of course, and offered to prove this to his capo in several ways. But Frank Bellarosa did not want to be proven wrong, especially in front of other people. What he wanted was for Posilico to show respect, to confess, to crawl and beg for mercy. Or, if he still insisted on his innocence, to do so in a way that showed he was frightened. But Vito Posilico had too big an ego, and though he
was
respectful, he was firm in his denial. He said, ‘I’ll get the contractor here in fifteen minutes, Frank. You can talk to him.’ Then Posilico raised his cup to his lips to drink, and Frank Bellarosa drew a lead pipe from somewhere and smashed Posilico’s fingers, the cup, and his teeth. Then he stood and proceeded to break nearly every bone in the man’s body. To give you one example.”

Wow. I let go of the wheel and leaned back against the rail. Yes, I could easily picture Bellarosa, wielding a lead pipe, cigar in his mouth, cracking a man’s bones because of some suspicion of thievery. In truth, Bellarosa would have broken old Richard’s arm for taking his salad away if we had been in Bellarosa’s club rather than mine. And this was the man whom Susan liked. I watched the wheel move to and fro as the rising wind and current carried the boat farther out. Evil and viciousness, I thought, are only fully understandable in anecdotal form. To hear that a man murdered nine nameless people to get to the top is distressful, but to hear in detail how he smashed Vito Posilico’s face and teeth with a lead pipe is gut wrenching.

Mr. Mancuso broke into my thoughts. “Why would a man like you associate with a man like that?”

“Are you here on government business, Mr. Mancuso, or are you here to save my soul?”

“Both, Mr. Sutter, as they happen to coincide.’’ He regarded me a moment, then said, “I don’t know you, but I know a lot about you. I know that you are a church-going man, a law-abiding citizen, a family man, a successful and respected attorney, a respected member of your community, and an army veteran. Frank Bellarosa is a malignancy on society, a vicious criminal, and a man whose soul is going to burn in hell for eternity.”

That last thing caught me by surprise, and I must have shown it. I replied, “I’m not arguing with you. Come to the point.”

“I would like your help.”

“How?”

“We have a court order to tap Bellarosa’s phones. But he knows that, of course, and he doesn’t say anything on the telephone, so—”

“And you overheard my conversations with him?”

“Yes. We know about the variance, the stables, and about his asking you to walk with him to Fox Point. Incidentally, you have a good sense of humor. And I’m happy to discover that you are not intimidated by him. He puts up with a lot of your sarcasm. I wonder why.”

“I think it goes over his thick head, Mr. Mancuso.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, we know that you and your wife went there one night, of course, and I have photos of you waving at us, and photos of you walking with Bellarosa to Fox Point. We know, too, that you took him and his wife to your country club, and that this caused you some problems with your friends. Also, we’ve heard your wife talking with Mrs. Bellarosa on the phone, and even with Mr. Bellarosa a few times.’’ He watched me a moment, then added, “Your wife spends a good deal of time at Alhambra. We understand that she is painting a picture of the house. Correct?”

“My wife is a professional painter. Artists, writers, and whores work for anyone with the cash.”

“But attorneys don’t?”

“Depends on the cash.”

“Your wife did not charge the Bellarosas for the painting.”

“How do you know that?”

“There are things I know that I would be happy to share with you, Mr. Sutter, if you would do me a few favors.”

I did not reply.

He said, “What we need is for you to plant three or four bugs in Bellarosa’s house. One in his den, one in the entranceway, maybe one in his greenhouse where we see him talking to his goombahs, and definitely one in the kitchen where he probably does most of his business because he’s Italian.’’ Mr. Mancuso flashed all his Chiclets.

“How about his bedroom?”

“We don’t do that.’’ He added, “Not too much goes on there anyway.’’ He walked toward me on the rolling boat and put his hand on my arm as though to steady himself. “Can we count on you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . I’m his attorney.”

He took a step back as if I’d said I had a communicable disease. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. Specifically, he wants me to represent him in the matter of the murder of Juan Carranza.’’ I studied Mr. Mancuso’s face and saw it was not a happy face.

He went to the portside rail and looked out to sea awhile.

I realized that I had made a tactical blunder in relating this to him if Bellarosa actually wanted it to remain a secret until his arrest, arraignment, and bail hearing. But that was a small mistake, and I was bound to make a few more since I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings. Also, Bellarosa had, at one point, wanted me to speak to Mancuso about Ferragamo, so I was not actually violating a privileged conversation. I said to Mancuso, “Do you want to know why I agreed to represent him?”

Without turning around, Mancuso replied, “I could speculate, Mr. Sutter, and if I did, I would say it had nothing to do with cash.”

“No, it doesn’t. In fact, I’m repaying a favor. But the main reason is that I believe Bellarosa is innocent of that particular allegation.”

He turned toward me. “Do you? Why do you believe that?”

“Among other reasons, because Bellarosa has convinced me that the U.S. Attorney, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, is framing him for that murder. Actually not just framing him, but setting him up to be murdered by the Colombians or by Bellarosa’s own people to keep the peace with the Colombians.’’ I watched Mr. Mancuso closely.

He has a very expressive face, which is not good for a cop, and I could see that he did not find this statement absurd. Bellarosa was right about watching faces when I made this accusation. I said to Mr. Mancuso, “I will relate to you what Bellarosa told me.’’ And for the next ten minutes, I did just that. I concluded by saying, “Bellarosa said you are an honest man. So if you are, then tell me honestly, does this sound plausible to you?”

He stared down at the deck for a full minute, then without looking up at me replied, “A United States Attorney is not going to jeopardize his career and his very freedom for personal revenge.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so three months ago, but’’—I affected an Italian accent—“but now I’ma learna abouta you
paesanos
, Mistah Mancuso, an’ I’ma thinkin’, maybe Mistah Bellarosa knowsa whas ina Mistah Ferragamo’s head.
Capisce?”

Mr. Mancuso didn’t seem amused.

I added, reverting to my normal accent, “Save Mr. Ferragamo’s soul, Mr. Mancuso. Remind him that revenge is a sin. If he backs off, that will let me off the hook as well. Tell him to find something better than a frame-up for Frank Bellarosa. Tell him to play fair.”

Mr. Mancuso did not respond.

I glanced at my watch, then said to Mr. Mancuso, “I’ll show you how to tack. Raise the mainsail first.”

BOOK: The Gold Coast

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