The Gate House (36 page)

I guess that meant “Long time no see,” which actually means “It’s been ages, John, since we’ve seen each other.” I replied, “Long time.”

I understood why Uncle Sal wanted to clip his brother-in-law, but I was annoyed that he’d picked the night I was having dinner with Frank and our wives. Though, as Felix Mancuso explained to me later, Sally Da-da probably knew that Frank Bellarosa would never think anyone would break the strict rule of not whacking someone in the presence of their family or in the company of upstanding citizens, which I guess included John and Susan Sutter. So Salvatore D’Alessio had calendared in “Whack Frank” on the same night that my calendar showed “Dinner with Bellarosas/NYC/limo.” I would have written in the name of the restaurant, Giulio’s, but with Frank, you never knew your exact destination until you got there. Someone else, however, probably Frank’s driver, Lenny the Snake, knew the name of the restaurant and passed it on to Sally Da-da, who couldn’t resist the opportunity.

I looked again at Salvatore D’Alessio, who was still looking at me, and I had to wonder about a man who would arrange to have his brother-in-law killed in front of his own wife’s sister.

Regarding the timing of the whack, Frank Bellarosa never had a day in his life when he wasn’t on his guard, and he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest under his tailored suit, so aside from some broken ribs and a severed carotid artery that was not protected by the Kevlar, he’d survived, with a little help from me.

Anthony broke the silence with some good news and announced, “My aunt and uncle just dropped by to say hello.”

Uncle Sal stood, and I was struck at how huge this guy was. I mean, even if you shaved off all his hair, he was still pretty big. He said, “Yeah. We’re goin’.”

Aunt Marie also stood, and said to her nephew, “Anthony, take care of your mother.”

“I do.”

“You gotta call her.”

“I do.”

“Have her over more. Not just Sundays, Anthony.”

“My
brothers
come in from Jersey and see her all the time.”

She ignored this and further advised Anthony, “Since your father died”—she glanced at me for some reason—“since he’s been gone, she’s all alone.”

“She’s got fifty cousins and sisters in Brooklyn.”

“They got their own lives.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Aunt Marie.”

While this was going on, Uncle Sal just stood there, expressionless, but perhaps thinking that his wife was wasting her time talking to a dead man. Well, I didn’t know that, of course, and certainly Uncle Sal had already had ample time and opportunity to put Anthony on the permanently dead list. So maybe they’d worked out some sort of power-sharing arrangement, like, “Anthony, you get the drugs, prostitution, and loan-sharking, and I take the gambling, extortion, and stealing from the docks and airports.” That’s what I would recommend.

Anthony said to his uncle, “Thanks for stopping by.”

Uncle Sal dropped his cigarette on the patio, stepped on it, and said, “Your mother looks good.”

Anthony glanced at the cigarette butt on his nice slate patio, but he didn’t say anything. So maybe he was thinking, “Why bother? He’s dead anyway.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio somehow managed to have each other whacked?

I hope I didn’t say that out loud, and I guess I didn’t because Uncle Sal turned to me and asked, “So, whaddaya up to?”

“Same old shit.”

“Yeah? Like?”

Anthony interrupted this windy conversation and said, “John’s my tax guy.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Sal looked at me for a long time, as if to say, “Sorry my boys missed you at Giulio’s.” Well, maybe I was imagining that.

Aunt Marie announced, “I’m going in,” but before she left, she reminded Anthony, “Your mother needs you.” She should remind her husband of that, too.

So I stood there with Anthony and Salvatore in manly silence, then I realized I was supposed to leave them alone. But I didn’t want to go back in the kitchen with the women—only faggots would do that—so I said, “I’m going to take a walk.” I addressed Uncle Sal. “Well, great seeing you again.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a card?”

“
What?
”

“Ciao.” I walked out toward the pool, well out of earshot and gunshot range. I looked at the shimmering pool, then out to where the German shepherd was glaring at me, which for some reason reminded me of Salvatore D’Alessio.

Salvatore D’Alessio
—Sally Da-da to his friends, and Uncle Sal to his nephew—was the real thing. I mean, this guy was not playacting the part of a Mafia boss like so many of these characters did. This was one mean and dangerous man. If I had to put money on who would whack whom first, I’d bet on Uncle Sal being at Anthony’s funeral, and not the other way around.

And yet Anthony had the major motivation—personal vendetta—and also he seemed to have more brains, which I know is not saying too much.

Bottom line here was this: Anthony wanted to kill Uncle Sal; Uncle Sal wanted to kill Anthony; Uncle Sal might still be annoyed at me for saving Frank’s life and making him look incompetent; Anthony wanted to kill Susan; I wanted Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio dead.

Who said that Sunday family dinners were boring?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
saw that Uncle Sal had left, and Anthony was now sitting in a chair under the pavilion. I took the chair across from him, and I noticed that the cigarette butt was gone.

Neither of us spoke, but I thought Anthony was going to put me at ease about Uncle Sal by saying something like, “Under all that hair is a big heart,” but he acted as though Uncle Sal hadn’t been there, and commented instead on Aunt Marie, saying, “She’s a ballbuster.”

I wasn’t sure if I needed to respond, but Anthony was still chafing at Aunt Marie’s public lecture, and he wanted me to know what he thought of her. I said, “Well, I think she’s fond of you, and she loves her sister.”

“Yeah. Right.” He informed me, “She’s got two boys. Both in Florida. Nobody ever sees them.”

I thought maybe their father ate them, but Anthony let me know, “They’re fucking beach bums.”

I didn’t respond.

He sat back, smoking, and I could see that Uncle Sal’s visit had put him in a bad mood, so possibly he was thinking about the best way to end these visits forever, which was why he’d thought about Uncle Sal’s wife and sons. His aunt was a ballbuster, and he’d like to make her a widow, like his mother, and his cousins were not a threat if by some chance something happened to their father.

But maybe I was being too clever. Maybe he was thinking about his mother’s lasagna. I said to him, “Your uncle looked good.”

He came out of his thoughts and replied, “Yeah. He uses the same polish on his hair and his shoes.” He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You asked him for his card.”

“I wondered what sort of business he was in.”

Anthony smiled again, then replied, “The family business.” He then assured me, “He didn’t know you were jerking him around.”

That’s good.

Anthony said to me, “You got balls.”

I didn’t reply, but the subject of balls was out there, so Anthony felt he needed to tell me, “I should’ve shoved that cigarette butt up his ass, but every time I get pissed off at him, everybody thinks
I’m
the bad guy.”

“I think you handled it quite well.” I reminded him, “He
is
your uncle.”

“Yeah. By marriage. But still, you got to show respect. Right?”

“Right.” Right up until the time you kill him.

“But he’s got to show respect, too.”

“I agree.” I had no doubt that men in Anthony’s world had been killed for far less than throwing a cigarette butt on their host’s patio. It was all about respect, and not embarrassing a goombah in public, but it was also about family ties, the pecking order, and ultimately about the balance of power that needed to be preserved. And maybe that was why neither of these two had made a move on the other yet. Meanwhile, they’d go on pissing each other off until one or the other snapped.

Anthony gave me some good advice and said, “Don’t fuck with him. He can’t take a joke.”

I doubted if Uncle Sal even understood a joke.

Then Anthony said, “I think this is going to be a busy week.”

That seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was apparently a preface to something rather than an offhand remark, so I went along with it and asked, “Why?”

“Well, from what I hear, John Gotti has only a few days left.”

I didn’t respond.

Anthony continued, “There’ll be a three-day wake and a big funeral. You know?”

Again, I didn’t respond.

Anthony went on, “So, I got to be there.” He explained, “I mean, I don’t have any business with him, but I know the family, so you have to show your respect. Even if by being there, some people get the wrong idea.”

Right. Like, the police and the press might mistake you for a mobster.

He looked at me and said, “You went to my father’s funeral. Out of respect.”

I wasn’t sure
why
I’d gone to his father’s funeral, except maybe I felt some . . . guilt, I guess, that it was my wife who’d killed him. I didn’t respect Frank Bellarosa, but, I guess, despite all that had happened, I liked him. So I said to Anthony, “I liked your father.” I added, “And your mother.”

He looked at me and nodded, then said, “Afterwards, like years later, I realized what a ballsy move that was. I mean, to go to my father’s funeral when it was your wife who killed him.”

I had no reply to that.

He continued, “I’ll bet you got a lot of shit about that from your friends and family.”

In fact, I hadn’t. And that was because no one was speaking to me after that. My father, however, did comment, “That showed poor judgment, John.” Even my mother, who loves all things multicultural, said, “What were you thinking?” My sister, Emily, had also called me and said, “I saw you on TV at Bellarosa’s funeral. You stood out like a sore thumb, John. We need to get you a black shirt and a white tie.” She’d added, “That took guts.”

Anthony said to me, “You probably got some shit in the press, too.”

I did get a few mentions, but nothing that was really critical or judgmental; mostly the media was happy to report on the irony of the alleged killer’s husband being at the funeral. Well, maybe the media doesn’t understand irony, but they do understand entertainment value.

My good friend Jenny Alvarez had helped set the tone by reporting on TV that “unnamed sources have described John Sutter as a man who puts his professional responsibilities above his personal feelings, and as the attorney of record for Frank Bellarosa, he felt he should be there for his deceased client’s family.”

That was a bit of a stretch, not to mention a contradiction, but Jenny liked me, and when a reporter likes you, they’ll find, or make up, unnamed sources to say nice things about you. If she was a
really
honest journalist, she’d have added, “In the interests of full disclosure, I need to report that I slept with Mr. Sutter.”

Anthony said to me, “Hey, if you want to go with me, that would be good.”

I felt that one Mafioso funeral in a lifetime was already one too many, so I said to him, “I, too, have a busy week. But thank you.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute as Anthony smoked and stared off at his swimming pool.

I’m not a Mafia buff, but I’m an attorney with a good brain who once worked for Frank Bellarosa, so I started putting some things together, to wit: John Gotti’s death might cause some uncertainty among his business associates, and maybe some opportunities. And if I thought about Anthony and Sally Da-da coexisting in an uneasy truce for all these years, I might conclude that the only way this had been possible was if this truce had been mandated by someone like John Gotti—and he was not long for this world. Therefore, if my deductions were correct, Anthony and his uncle Sal would soon be free to kill each other. And that, perhaps, was why Anthony was in full security mode.

I had another thought that maybe Susan had also been included in this Do-Not-Whack arrangement—the Mafia was all about making money, and avoiding bad press for killing civilians—but maybe after John Gotti’s funeral, Anthony might feel free to deal with Susan.

The other possibility was that I was spending too much time with Anthony, and I was starting to think the way I imagined he and his goombahs thought.

The subject of Gotti’s imminent death seemed to be closed, and dinner hadn’t been announced, so I thought this was the time to give Anthony my good news about Susan and me, but before I could do that, he asked me, “What are your kids doing?”

I had learned, long before the Bellarosas came into my life, to be circumspect with strangers regarding the location and activities of my children. I mean, neither the Sutters nor the Stanhopes were celebrities, like the Bellarosas, but the Stanhopes were rich, and there were people who knew this name. My great hope in this regard was that a kidnapper would snatch William, ask for a million-dollar ransom, and be turned down by Charlotte. Anyway, to answer Anthony’s question, I said, “My son is living on the West Coast, and my daughter is an ADA in Brooklyn.”

This information got his attention, and he said, “Yeah? She works for Joe Hynes?”

The legendary Brooklyn District Attorney is named Charles J. Hynes, but his friends call him Joe. I didn’t think that Mr. Hynes and Mr. Bellarosa were friends, but I was certain they knew each other, professionally. I replied, “She works with the Feds on organized crime murders,” which was not true—but how could I resist saying that?

Anthony thought about this awhile, then looked at me and said, “I never heard of her.”

I replied, innocently, “Why would you?”

“I mean . . . yeah. Right.” He observed, “There’s not much money in that.”

“It’s not about the money.”

He laughed. “Yeah? I guess if you already have money, then nothing is about the money.”

“
You
have money. Is that how you think?”

He looked at me, then replied, “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s about the power.”