The Gold Coast (93 page)

Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast

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My tax records were in Locust Valley, but I’d worry about that this afternoon. Now I know what it feels like to be mugged. I walked to my door and opened it. “And no one in the Free World wears synthetic leather shoes, Mr. Novac. You must be a spy.”

“I am a vegetarian,’’ he explained, “and will not wear leather.”

“Then for God’s sake, man, have the decency to wear canvas tennis shoes or rubber galoshes, but not
plastic
. Good day.”

He left without another word, and as I was closing the door behind him, a word popped into my mind and I called out, “Schmuck!’’ Louise almost dropped her dentures. I slammed the door shut.

Despite my cool, patrician exterior, I was somewhat disturbed over the prospect of coughing up about a third of a million dollars plus spending time in a federal prison. I poured a glass of ice water from a carafe, went to the window, and opened it, letting in some of the last breathable air that still exists at this altitude in Manhattan.

So, there it was; the Great Upper-Middle-Class Nightmare—a tax slip-up in six figures.

Now listen to me feel sorry for myself. I work my butt off, I raised two children, I contribute to society and to the nation, I pay my taxes . . . well, apparently not all of them, but most of them . . . and I served my country in time of war when others found ways to avoid their national duty. This is not fair.

Now listen to me build up rage. The nation is overrun with drug dealers and Mafia dons who live like kings. Criminals own the streets, murderers walk free, billions are spent on welfare, but there’s no money to build jails, congressmen and senators do things that would put me behind bars, and big corporations get away with tax scams of such magnitude that the government would rather compromise than fight. And they call
me
a criminal? What the hell is wrong here?

I got myself under control and looked down into the street. Wall Street, the financial hub of the nation from which radiated the spokes of power and money that held up the rim of the world. And yet there was this perception out in the hinterlands that Wall Street was un-American, and the movers and shakers who inhabited it were parasites. Thus, Mr. Novac entered Wall Street with a generally bad attitude, and I suppose I didn’t do much to change his mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have remarked on his plastic shoes. But how could I have possibly resisted? I mean, I learned
something
at Yale. I smiled. I was feeling a little better.

Now listen to me think rationally. The criminal charge would be difficult to prove, but not impossible. A jury of my peers, drawn from my friends at The Creek, would surely find me not guilty. But a federal jury, constituted in New York City, might not be so sympathetic. But even if I could avoid or beat the criminal charges and fines, I was probably on the hook for . . . I looked at the paper on my desk . . . $314,513, which was actually more than the entire so-called profit on the sale of the house. That is a lot of money, even for a successful Wall Street lawyer. Especially an honest one.

Also, Susan theoretically was on the hook for half of that. Though we file separate tax returns because of her complicated trust fund income, and because that is what our marriage contract stipulates we do, half the East Hampton house is hers, and she should have picked up half the supposed capital gain. But of course, even in this age of women’s equality, Novac was talking jail to me, not Susan. Typical.

Anyway, thinking rationally, I knew I should call the Stanhopes’ law firm and advise them of this problem. They’d probably go to the IRS and offer to help screw me in exchange for immunity for their little heiress client. You think marrying into a super-rich family is all fun and profit? Try it. Anyway, the next thing I had to do was have one of the partners here handle my tax case—you can’t be objective when it’s your own money—and then I should think about actually retaining a criminal attorney for myself.

This last thought led me into a word association, like this: Criminal = Bellarosa.

I thought about my buddy, Frank, for a moment. Mr. Bellarosa went to jail once in his larcenous life, and that was for tax evasion. But obviously Bellarosa is still committing tax fraud, since he’s certainly not declaring his income from drugs, prostitution, gambling, hijacking, or whatever else he does on the side.

So I stood there looking down on Wall Street, feeling sorry for myself, feeling angry at the injustices of life, and really pissed off at the thought of all the criminals who were not hassled today by the government.

It was just then, I suppose, that a strange thing began to happen to me: I started to lose faith in the system. Me, a champion of the system, a cheerleader for law and order, a patriot and a Republican for God’s sake—suddenly I felt alienated from my country. I suppose this is a common reaction for an honest man and a good citizen who is thrown into the same category as Al Capone and Frank Bellarosa. I suppose, too, to be honest, that this had been brewing for some time.

I recalled Frank Bellarosa’s words:
You a Boy Scout or something? You salute the flag every morning?

Well, I did. But then I realized that all my years of good citizenship would only count toward a favorable presentencing report to the judge.

My logic—no, my survival instincts—told me I needed to stop being a good citizen if I wanted to be a free citizen. So, voluntary compliance or come and get me, pigs?
Come and get me, pigs.

I knew, of course, the one man who could really help me, and I wished I had his telephone number right then.

Twenty-five

Despite my announcement that I was leaving home, or perhaps because of it, Susan and I were getting along better. We both agreed that I had been under some financial and professional strain, and that George’s death had caused us both some emotional trauma, and even the sale of Stanhope Hall had probably contributed to my outburst in the restaurant and my announcement when we got home. I assured Susan, however, that I still thought her father was a monumental prick. She seemed willing to let it go at that.

Anyway, toward the end of July, Mr. Melzer called me at home to inform me that he had worked out a deal with the Internal Revenue Service. To wit: I would pay them $215,000 within sixty days and they would consider the obligation fulfilled. Mr. Melzer seemed pleased with his work. He said, “That is a savings to you of $99,513.”

“But then I would owe you about fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Melzer, and I’ve already paid you twenty thousand. So really, Mr. Melzer, if you do a little arithmetic, you have saved me only about thirty thousand dollars. I could have done as well myself.”

“But I did the work for you, Mr. Sutter.’’ He cleared his throat over the phone. “And there was the matter of the criminal charges. That alone is worth—”

“Get them down another ten or shave your commission.”

“But—”

I hung up. After a decent interval of an hour or so, Mr. Melzer called back. “They will take two hundred and ten thousand dollars, Mr. Sutter. That is the best I can do. I will make up the other five to you. Considering they could still bring criminal charges against you, I suggest you settle.”

“I never understood, Mr. Melzer, why the IRS and the Mafia haven’t merged.”

Mr. Melzer chuckled and replied, “Professional jealousy.’’ He added, “Can you have the check ready within sixty days?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll hand-deliver the check to the IRS and see that it is properly credited. That is part of my service.”

There was a not-too-subtle subtext there. I said, “And I suppose you’d like to pick up your check at the same time.”

“That would be very convenient.”

“All right. Call me in thirty days.”

“Fine. And thank you, Mr. Sutter. It has been a delight working with a man of such refinement.”

I couldn’t say the same, so I said, “It’s been educational.”

“That only adds to my delight.”

“By the way, Mr. Melzer, did you happen to hear anything regarding how the IRS discovered this oversight on my part?”

“I did make some inquiries regarding that very question. I did not receive any direct answers, but we can assume this was not a random examination of your past tax returns.”

“Can we then assume that someone was out to make difficulties for me?”

“Mr. Sutter, I told you, you are not popular with the IRS.”

“But I have not been popular with the IRS since I began beating them at their game twenty years ago. Why would they examine my return
now
?”

“Oh, I think they knew about this oversight of yours for years, Mr. Sutter. They like to see the interest and penalties accumulate.”

“I see.’’ But I found that hard to believe, even of the Internal Revenue Service. They were tough but generally honest, even going so far as to return money that you didn’t know you overpaid them.

“However,’’ Mr. Melzer continued, “I would not pursue that if I were you.’’ He added, “Or you will be needing me again.”

“Mr. Melzer, I will never need you again. And I am not intimidated by any agency of my government. If I believe I’ve been singled out for persecution, I will certainly pursue the matter.”

Mr. Melzer let a moment pass, then said, “Mr. Sutter, if I may be blunt, your type of man is nearly extinct. Accept your loss, swallow your pride, and go live your life, my friend. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself.”

“I enjoy fighting the good fight.”

“As you wish.’’ He added, “By the way, I would still like to call on you for your professional advice if I may. Your work for me would be strictly confidential, of course.”

“Better yet, it will be nonexistent. Good day.”

• • •

Well, things always seem to work out, don’t they? The very next day, on one of my rare appearances in my Wall Street office, there was a phone call for me. It was from a Mr. Weber, a realtor in East Hampton, informing me that he had good news. He had, in fact, a bid of $390,000 for my little summer cottage. “That is not good news at all,’’ I informed him.

“Mr. Sutter, the market has fallen to pieces. This is the only serious offer we’ve had, and this guy’s looking around at other houses right now.”

“I’ll call you back.’’ I then phoned every other realtor who had the house listed and listened to an earful of bad news and excuses. I called Susan, since she is joint owner of the house, but as usual, she wasn’t in. That woman needs a pager, a car phone, a CB radio for her horse, and a cowbell. I called Weber back. “I’ll split the difference between asking and bid. Get him up to four hundred and forty-five.”

“I’ll try.”

Mr. Weber called me back in a half hour, making me wonder if his customer wasn’t actually sitting in his office. Weber said, “The prospective buyer will split the difference with you again, making his final offer $417,500. I suggest you take that, Mr. Sutter, because—”

“The housing market is soft, the summer is waning, and the stock market is down sixteen and a quarter today. Thank you, Mr. Weber.”

“Well, I just want you to know the facts.”

Mr. Weber, by now, could smell his commission, which I figured at six percent to be about twenty-five thousand dollars. I said, “I want four and a quarter for me, so you’ll give me the difference from your commission.”

There was silence on the phone as Mr. Weber, who had been smelling prime ribs, realized he was being offered T-bone or nothing. He cleared his throat as Mr. Melzer had done and said, “That’s do-able.”

“Then do it.’’ Normally, I would be more aggressive in real estate deals and also with the IRS. But I didn’t have much strength from which to bargain. In fact, unbeknownst to Mr. Weber, I had none, and time was running out.

Mr. Weber said, “It’s done. Did I tell you that the buyer wants to rent the house starting immediately? No? Well, he does. He wants to use it for all of August. He’s offering a hundred a day until closing. I know you could get more now in high season, but it’s part of the deal, so I suggest—”

“His name isn’t Melzer, is it?”

“No. Name’s Carleton. Dr. Carleton. He’s a psychiatrist in the city. Park Avenue. They don’t see patients in August, you know, and he has a wife and two kids, so he wants—”

“My family wants to use the house in August, Mr. Weber.”

“It’s a deal breaker, Mr. Sutter. He insists.”

“Well, in that case, I had better make new summer plans, hadn’t I? Perhaps I’ll go down to the town dump and slug rats with a rake.”

“Actually, I could find you another rental out here—”

“Never mind. Do it your way and Dr. Carleton’s way.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Carleton really likes the house. The furniture, too.”

“How much?”

“Another ten. Cash.”

“Fine. Did he see the picture of my wife and kids in the den?”

Mr. Weber chuckled. Making deals was fun. I said, “If this bonzo is trying to pull off a cheap summer rental, I’ll hang his balls over my mantel.”