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Authors: Nelson DeMille

The Gold Coast (26 page)

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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Susan and I excused ourselves and moved to a high-backed booth that she had reserved. Susan had on a very nice clingy, red, knit dress that I thought was a little too dressy for early evening at McGlade’s Pub, but I supposed that she didn’t want to underdress with me in a three-piece pinstripe, and she did look good across the table.
As we were finishing our simple but tasteless dinner, I said, “The chef must have your recipe for mashed potatoes.”
She smiled. “Thank you. But I thought these were a little raw and lumpy.”
That’s what I meant, but I said, “Well, I’m going to have dessert tonight.”
“Good. How about cannoli and some espresso?”
“They don’t have that in an Irish pub,’’ I pointed out.
“And maybe a little sambuca.”
“Oh, no, Susan. No, no, no.”
“Yes. Anna Bellarosa called me this afternoon. She would like us there for coffee. About eight. I said yes.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you would have said no, no, no.”
I realized what the dress was all about now. “I am not going.”
“Oh, look, John, this is better than doing dinner or some beastly Easter thing with lamb parts and a house full of
paesanos
.”
“Full of what?”
“Let’s go and get it over with. It’s easier than being evasive for the next few years.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“John, his men are moving our stable.”
“Your stable, to your land.”
“We are at a distinct disadvantage. Be civil.”
“I am not going to be bullied, bribed, or embarrassed into accepting a social invitation.’’ I added, “I have a
briefcase
full of work tonight.’’ I patted the briefcase beside me.
“Do it for me.’’ She pursed those magnificent pouty lips. “Please.”
“I’ll think about it.’’ I grumbled and looked at my watch. It was seven-fifteen. I called the waitress over and ordered a double scotch. We sat in the booth, me nursing my scotch and my resentment, Susan chatting about something or other. I interrupted her in midsentence. “Does Anna Bellarosa wear glasses?”
“Glasses? How would I know? I couldn’t tell over the phone.”
“That’s true.”
“Why?”
“Just wondering.’’ I added, “I thought I saw her someplace and wondered if she would recognize me. I saw her in town. I think she’s a blonde with big hooters.”
“Big what?”
“Sunglasses.”
“Oh . . . how could you know . . . ? I’m confused.”
“Me, too.’’ I went back to my scotch. I replayed the fountain incident in my mind a few times and decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would recognize me in my pinstripes. I made a mental note not to get down on all fours and spit water.
Finally, at seven-thirty, I said to Susan, “I’ve been doing some background research on Mr. Bellarosa. He did do time once, back in ’76. Two years for tax fraud. And that is what you call the tip of the iceberg.”
Susan responded, “He paid his debt to society.”
I nearly choked on my ice cube. “Are you serious?”
“I heard that line in an old movie once. It sounded good.”
“Anyway, it is
alleged
that Mr. Bellarosa is involved in drug distribution, extortion, prostitution, bid rigging, bribery, murder conspiracy, and so on, and so forth. Additionally, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, is investigating allegations that Mr. Frank Bellarosa personally murdered a man. So, do you still want to go to his house for coffee?”
“John, I absolutely
must
see what they’ve done to Alhambra.”
“Will you be serious a moment?”
“Sorry.”
“Listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? I am a law-abiding citizen, and I will not abide criminals.”
“I hear you. Now listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? Tax fraud? Bill Turner, one year, suspended sentence. Bid rigging? Dick Conners, your former golfing partner, two years for highway bid rigging. Drugs? I’ll name you eight users with whom we socialize. And who is that lawyer you used to sail with who embezzled clients’ funds?”
Properly chastised, I bowed my head into my scotch and finished it. “All right, Susan, so moral corruption is rampant. It just doesn’t seem so bad when it’s done by the right sort of people.’’ I chuckled to show I was joking.
“What a pompous ass you are sometimes. But at least you know it.”
“Yes.’’ I stayed silent for a while and listened to the ambient sounds of the nearby bar. The shell-shocked commuters were straggling out, and the singles had not yet arrived for the mating game. It was the quiet hour. Tabby or Tappy, I noticed, was still waiting for her husband, who, if he existed at all, was probably on a business trip out of town. Like all married people, I have often considered what it would be like to be single again.
This thought, for some reason, made me recall my cousin-by-marriage, the delicious Terri, wife of the brainless Freddie, who had indeed called about her will, and we have arranged a lunch date in the city next week. Around here, when you have a suburban office and a suburban client, yet still meet in the city for lunch, then there’s more going on than lunch. However, I had already resolved to stick to business with Terri. But someday, my idiotic flirtations are going to get me in trouble. Beryl Carlisle is another case in point. I’ve seen her at The Creek a few times since I cast lustful looks at her last month. When I see her now, she looks at me as if she wants me to look at her lustfully again. But I’m fickle. And loyal. No Terris for me, no Beryls, no Sally Anns, and no Sally Graces. My wife is the only woman that keeps my interest up. Also, I’m chicken.
Somebody had put money in the jukebox, and his or her preference was for fifties tunes. The sound of The Skyliners, singing “Since I Don’t Have You,’’ filled the nearly empty bar. The song brought back memories of a time that I supposed was more innocent, certainly less frightening.
I reached across the table and took Susan’s hand. I said, “Our world is shrinking and changing around us, and here we are in the hills like some sort of vanquished race, performing the old rituals and observing the ancient customs, and sometimes, Susan, I think we’re ludicrous.”
She squeezed my hand. “Here’s another Saint Jerome for you—‘The Roman world is falling, but we will hold our heads erect.’”
“Nice one.”
“Ready to go?”
“Yes. Do I kiss his ring?”
“A handshake will be sufficient.’’ She added, “Think of the evening as a challenge, John. You need a challenge.”
This was true. Challenge and adventure. Why can’t some men be content with a warm fire and a hot wife? Why do men go to war? Why did I go to Alhambra to visit the dragon? Because I needed a challenge. In retrospect, I should have stayed in McGlade’s and challenged Susan to a videogame of Tank Attack.

 

 

Part III
Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.
—Matthew 7:13

 

 

Fifteen
Alhambra. We were late but not fashionably so. Just ten minutes. I was driving Susan’s Jaguar and I pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, which were closed. There was one of those post-mounted speakers near my window, and I pushed the call button. No one spoke to me through the speaker, but the gates began slowly swinging open. Technology is eerie. But it has allowed us to live tolerably well without our maids, cooks, charwomen, and other helpful humans. And now it gives us some of the security and convenience once provided by gatekeepers and estate managers.
But Mr. Frank Bellarosa had both technology and servants, for as I drove the Jag through the open gates, a large Homo sapiens appeared in my headbeams. I stopped, and the figure moved toward my window, his knuckles dragging along the ground. It was a human male of about thirty, dressed in a dark silk shirt open to his navel, which revealed so much hair that I could see why he couldn’t button it. Over his shirt he wore a dark sports jacket, which did not cover his shoulder holster when he leaned into the car.
The man had an unpleasant face with matching expression. He said to me, “Can I help ya?”
“Yeah. Da Suttas ta see da Bellarosas.”
He spotted Susan and smiled. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Sutta.”
“Hello, Anthony.”
“Shoulda recognized ya car.”
“That’s all right.”
“Mr. Bellarosa’s waitin’ for ya.”
This was all going on a few inches from my face, but as I didn’t exist, it didn’t matter. Before Susan and Anthony had quite finished with their conversation, I hit the gas and the Jag bounced over the cobblestones. I asked Susan, “Come here often?”
“He’s nicer than he looks.”
“But is he paper trained?’’ I proceeded slowly up the drive. I like the sound of Michelins bouncing over cobble. It sounds like you’ve arrived before you stop the car.
Alhambra’s drive is about a quarter-mile long, straight, as I said, and flanked by tall, statuesque Lombardy poplars, all leafed out now and perfectly pruned. Between the poplars were new garden lights that cast a soft amber glow over thousands of newly planted flowers. Ahead, I could see Alhambra’s white stucco walls and red tile roofs looming larger. Jaded as I am, I always get a thrill when I drive up to one of the great houses at night. Their entranceways were designed to impress kings and millionaires and to intimidate everyone else. Unfortunately, the Bellarosas did not know about the custom of turning on the lights in all the front rooms when guests were expected, so the house looked dark and foreboding as we approached, except that the front door and the forecourt were lit.
I was not in the best of moods as you may have gathered, so despite the fact that I was impressed so far, I said, “I can see why Bellarosa would buy this place. It looks like Villa di Greaseball.”
“Don’t use that word.”
“
He
uses it.”
“I don’t care,’’ she said. “Anyway, Spanish architecture is fine if it’s done right.
Vanderbilts
lived here, John.”
“Vanderbilts lived
everywhere
, Susan.’’ I pulled into the circular forecourt in the middle of which was a new three-tiered marble fountain from which water spouted and cascaded, lit by multicolored lights. “Early Italian catering hall.”
“Cut it out, John.”
I parked the car near the fountain, and we got out and walked across the cobblestones toward the front door. I stopped and turned back toward the drive we had just come up. The view out to the road with the line of poplars running down toward the gate was also very imperial. Despite my reservations about the abundance of colored lights, it was nice to see this great estate coming alive again. “Not bad,’’ I proclaimed. Beyond the gates and across Grace Lane, I could see the DePauws’ stately colonial on the hill. I waved.
“To whom are you waving?’’ asked Susan.
“To Mr. Mancuso,’’ I replied.
“Who? Oh. . . .’’ She stayed silent for some time, then asked, “Are you ready?”
“I suppose.’’ I turned back toward the house. I could see that the stucco was being repaired and there was scaffolding on the south wing. Several skids of red roofing tile sat in the forecourt, and on the grass were cement pans and wheelbarrows. I asked Susan, “Do you know how Italians learn to walk?”
“No, John. Tell me.”
“They push wheelbarrows.’’ It didn’t sound as funny as when Bellarosa said it.
Susan asked, “How can they push wheelbarrows if they can’t walk?”
“No, you’re not getting it. You see . . . never mind. Listen, I want you to get a headache at nine-forty-five.”
“You’re giving me a headache now.’’ She added, “And why do I always have to get a headache? People are beginning to think I have a terminal disease. Why don’t you say your hemorrhoids are acting up at nine-forty-five?”
“Are we having a tiff?”
“No, you’re going to behave.”
“Yes, madame.”
We walked up the white limestone steps to a massive arched oak door with wrought-iron strap hinges.
Susan indicated one of the stone columns that held up the portico. “Did you know that these are genuine Carthaginian columns?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Incredible,’’ she said.
“Plunder,’’ I replied. “You millionaires plundered the Old World to adorn your houses.”
“That is what money is for,’’ Lady Stanhope informed me. “You may recall that every marble fireplace in Stanhope Hall is from a different Italian palace.”
“Yes, I remember that palace in Venice with the missing mantelpiece.’’ I pulled the bell chain. “Well, time for dessert.”
Susan wasn’t attending. She was intrigued with the Carthaginian columns and ran her hand over one of them. She said reflectively, “So, two thousand years after Frank Bellarosa’s ancestors plundered Carthage, Frank Bellarosa and the plunder reunite a half world away.”
BOOK: The Gold Coast
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