The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “It should. Or we can make a few trips.” I added, “You should arrange for a mover for the furniture.”

  “All right.” She suddenly asked me, “John, do you think I should buy the gatehouse? Is it for sale?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Nasim. Why would you want to buy it?”

  She shrugged. “Nostalgia. Maybe I’d live there. I don’t need the big house in Mill Neck. The kids are gone. I got the house in the divorce. Tom got my shoes and purses.” She smiled and said, “Or I could rent the gatehouse to you, if you stayed.”

  I smiled in return.

  She looked at her watch and said, “I should go. So, I’ll see you Saturday, about four.”

  “Right. If there is any change, you know the number.”

  “Do you have a cell?”

  “Not in the U.S.”

  “Okay . . .” She handed me the pastry box, then fished around in her purse, found a business card, and wrote on the card, saying, “My home number and my cell.”

  I exchanged the card for the pastry box and said, “See you Saturday.”

  “Thanks, John, for all you’re doing for Mom.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “And what you did for Dad. I never properly thanked you.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “He thought the world of you.” She added, “And your father was a good man, and he . . . he understood what you were going through.”

  I didn’t reply, and we did a quick hug and air kiss. She turned, took a few steps, then looked back and said, “Oh, I have a letter for you from Mom. I’ll bring it Saturday.”

  “Okay.”

  I watched her walking quickly toward the hospice house, then I turned and got into my rental car.

  As I drove down the lane toward the road, I replayed the conversation, as people do who are trying to extract some meaning beyond the words spoken. I also analyzed her body language and demeanor, but Elizabeth was not easy to read; or, maybe, as several women have told me, I miss the subtleties. If a woman says, “Let’s have a drink and talk business,” I actually think it’s about business. It’s a wonder I ever got laid.

  Anyway, on to my next adventure: dinner with don Anthony Bellarosa.

  Ethel, Elizabeth, Anthony. And, eventually, Susan.

  An individual life passes through a continuum of time and space, but now and then you enter a warp that sucks you back into the past. You understand what’s going on because you’ve been there before; but that’s no guarantee that you’re going to get it right this time. In fact, experience is just another word for baggage. And memory carries the bags.

  More importantly—egg drop or wonton? Chopsticks or fork?

  I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I noticed a big American flag decal displayed in the front window of Wong Lee’s, next to the credit card decals. I also noticed Tony (formerly known as Anthony) sitting in the driver’s seat of the big black SUV I’d seen a few nights earlier on Grace Lane. The windows were tinted, but the driver’s window was down, and I didn’t see Anthony Bellarosa (formerly known as Tony) inside the vehicle.

  Tony spotted me and shouted, “Hey! Mistah Sutta! Hey! It’s me! Tony. How ya doin’?”

  It would have been difficult for me—or anyone within half a mile—to ignore him, so I walked toward the SUV and said, in my best St. Paul’s accent, “I’m doing very well. Thank you for asking.”

  “Hey, you look great.” He reached through the window, we shook hands, then he opened the door and jumped out. He wanted to shake again, so we did, and he said, “The boss is inside, waitin’ for ya.”

  I glanced at my watch and saw I was fifteen minutes early. Frank Bellarosa, a graduate of La Salle Military Academy, once advised me, apropos of meetings and battles, “Like General Nathan Bedford Forrest said, Counselor, ‘Get there firstest with the mostest.’” Probably Frank had passed that on to his son, and that made me wonder how much Anthony had learned at the knee of his father before Frank’s life and Anthony’s education had been cut short. And, I wondered, how much was in the blood?

  Tony inquired, “So whaddaya been up to?”

  “Same old shit.”

  “Yeah? You look great.”

  I think we covered that, and I wished I could say the same about Tony, but he’d aged in ten years, a result, possibly, of job stress. Nevertheless, I said, “You’re looking good, Anthony. Well—”

  “Tony.”

  “Right.”

  He took a pack of cigarettes from his black sweatsuit warmup jacket and offered me one, which I declined.

  He lit up and said, “The boss says no smokin’ in the car.”

  “Good rule.” The SUV, I now noticed, had the Cadillac logo on the hubs, and the word “Escalade” on the front door. There was an American flag decal on the side window. If I could see the rear bumper, I’m sure the bumper stickers would say, “Suburban Mafia,” and “My kid can kill your honor student.”

  Tony took a drag, then returned to his subject, saying, “You can’t fuckin’ smoke no place no more.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve heard compound double negatives interspersed with the F-word, and I actually smiled.

  Tony, by the way, was dressed in running shoes and the aforementioned black sweatsuit ensemble. Frank Bellarosa would have fired him on the spot. Or fired at him.

  Interestingly, Tony sported an American flag pin on his warmup jacket, which at first surprised me, then did not. The Mafia always considered themselves loyal and patriotic Americans.

  “So,” Tony inquired, “how’s Mrs. Sutta?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I should mention that Susan was a favorite with the late don’s goons, and she in turn found them exotic or something, including their totally whorish girlfriends. I didn’t share her fascination with these characters, and she called me a snob. I’m quite certain that Tony had changed his opinion of Mrs. Sutter after she capped the don.

  “You ain’t seen her?”

  I didn’t like him asking about her, and I replied, “No. All right, good seeing you—”

  “Hey. Those were the days. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “You, me, the don, God rest his soul, that scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, and Vinnie, God rest his soul.”

  A scorecard would show three dead and two living. The don, God rest his soul, had been killed by you-know-who, and Vinnie, God rest his soul, had his head blown off with a shotgun, and scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, was Frank’s driver, and also the guy who dropped a dime on Frank, resulting in the Saturday night shoot-out at Giulio’s in Little Italy. Lenny had sped off with the two hit men in Frank’s stretch Caddy, but he was later found by the police in the car’s trunk at Newark Airport with a garrote around his neck—which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that these people played for keeps, and could not be trusted.

  I said to Tony, “Those were the days.”

  “Yeah. Hey, remember that morning when the Feds came for the boss? That little wop, Mancuso. Remember that?”

  The gentleman in question was FBI Special Agent Felix Mancuso, with whom I’d had some prior conversations about me working for Frank Bellarosa, and who, despite that fact, liked me. Mr. Mancuso had shown up at Alhambra to arrest don Frank Bellarosa for the murder of the Colombian drug lord, and Frank knew this was coming, so I was there as his attorney, and Lenny and Vinnie were there to look tough, and Tony, I recalled, was in the Alhambra gatehouse. Felix Mancuso had come alone, without an army of agents, to show Frank Bellarosa that his balls were at least as big as Frank’s. But before Mancuso put the cuffs on Frank, he took me aside and tried to save my soul, telling me to get my life together and get away from Bellarosa before it was too late. Good advice, but it was already too late.

  And here I stood now, at the threshold of perhaps another great folly, and I realized I could choose not to walk into Wong Lee’s Chine
se restaurant.

  Tony said, “Hey, I’m keepin’ ya. Go ’head. Third booth on the right.”

  I turned and walked toward the restaurant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Third booth on the right.

  Wong Lee’s hadn’t changed much in ten years, or in thirty years, for that matter, and the décor could best be described as 1970s Chinese restaurant.

  Anthony was sitting facing the door, as is customary for men in his profession. He had good lines of sight and fields of fire, except for his rear, which seemed unsecured, unless there was another goombah back there somewhere.

  He was talking on his cell phone, holding it in his left hand, so that his right hand was free to nibble fried wontons or pull his gun.

  Well, maybe I’m overanalyzing his choice of seating; I mean, it’s a Chinese restaurant in a suburban town, for goodness’ sake. Did you ever see a headline saying, Mafia Boss Hit in Chinese Restaurant?

  On the other hand, based on Anthony’s cautious behavior in front of the gatehouse, it was very possible that he knew he was on somebody’s clip list. And I’m having dinner with this guy? You would think I should have learned my lesson at Giulio’s.

  Anthony had seen me as soon as I opened the door, and he was smiling and waving his free gun hand as he kept talking. He was wearing another version of the awful shirt he’d had on the other night, but this time he wore an electric blue sports jacket over it.

  The hostess noticed we were paesanos, and escorted me to the booth saying, “You sit with your friend.”

  Then why am I being seated here?

  Anthony was still chatting, but he stuck out his hand and we shook. He said into the phone, “Okay . . . okay . . . I’m sorry . . . yeah . . . okay . . .”

  Wife or mother.

  He continued, “Yeah . . . he’s here, Ma. He wants to say hello . . . yeah . . . here . . . Ma . . . Ma . . .” He covered the mouthpiece and said to me, “You know why Italian mothers make great parole officers? They never let anyone finish a sentence.” He handed me the phone and said, “My mother wants to say hello.”

  I hate when people hand me a phone to say hello to someone I don’t want to say hello to, but I liked Anna Bellarosa, so I put the phone to my ear and heard her say, “All the Italian restaurants in Glen Cove, and you take him to the Chinks? You don’t think, Tony. Your father knew how to think. You—”

  “Anna, hi, this is—”

  “Who’s this?”

  “John Sutter. How are you?”

  “John! Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you. Oh my God. John, how are you?”

  “I’m—”

  “Tony says you look great.”

  “Anthony.”

  “Who?”

  “Your son—”

  “Tony. Tony says he saw you the other night. He says you’re living here now.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Why don’t you go to Stanco’s? Why are you eating at the Chinks?”

  “Chinese was my idea. So, you’re back in Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah. In the old neighborhood. Williamsburg. Since Frank . . . oh my God, John. Do you believe he’s dead?”

  Actually, yes.

  “It’s ten years, John, ten years since my Frank . . .” She let out a sigh, followed by a little sob, caught her breath, then continued, “Nothing is the same without Frank.”

  That’s good news.

  She went into a brief eulogy of her deceased husband, which sounded well-practiced, emphasizing his qualities as a father, and said, “The boys miss him. In a few weeks is Father’s Day, John. The boys take me to the cemetery every Father’s Day. They cry at his grave.”

  “It must be very sad for them.”

  She let me know how sad it was. She didn’t say anything specific about Frank as a perfect husband, but neither did she say anything negative, of course, nor would she ever.

  The last time I’d seen her was at Frank’s funeral, and she hadn’t looked good in black with mascara running down her face. In fact, though, she’d been an attractive woman in a fertility goddess sort of way—full-bodied, big-busted, good skin under the makeup, big eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. I wondered what ten years and widowhood had done to her.

  As Anna prattled on, I glanced at Anthony, who seemed to have tuned out and was absently stirring his beverage, which looked and smelled like a Scotch on the rocks. I got his attention and motioned to his drink. He nodded and summoned the waitress.

  Anna Bellarosa was going on about life without her sainted husband, avoiding any mention of my then-wife putting three .38 caliber slugs into dear Frank.

  It happened, incidentally, on the mezzanine that overlooked the palm court atrium at Alhambra. Frank had been wearing a bathrobe, and when he went over the railing and hit the red-tiled floor below, his bathrobe flew open, and when I saw him, he wasn’t wearing anything under his black silk robe, and it occurred to me now that this image of him had somehow transferred itself to my dream in another form.

  Anna was saying, “He loved you, John. He really did.”

  Then why was he fucking my wife?

  “He always told me how smart you were. How you helped him when they tried to make up charges against him.”

  Ironically, Frank Bellarosa would have been safer in jail. “Well, I was just doing what he paid me to do.” And he still owes me fifty thousand dollars.

  “No. You did it because you loved him.”

  “Right.” Or did I write off the fifty thousand and chalk it up to experience? I seem to remember that the Feds had seized all his assets and his checkbooks.

  Anna was rambling on. The waitress came, a very young Chinese lady, and I tapped Anthony’s glass and pointed to myself, so she pushed Anthony’s glass in front of me.

  Anthony seemed not amused and snatched his glass back, then barked an order for two Dewar’s, and mumbled in Italian, “Stonata,” which I recalled means something like “bubble brain.”

  Out of nowhere, Anna asked, “Why did she do it, John?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “John. Why?”

  “Uh . . . well . . .” Well, because they were having a lover’s quarrel. But I didn’t think Anna wanted to hear that. I mean, she had to know—it was in all the newspapers, as I recall, not to mention radio and television, and supermarket tabloids—so it was a silly question.

  “She didn’t have to do it, John.”

  “I know.” But Frank had made promises to her, then broke those promises, and Susan, not used to being scorned, shot him.

  By the time I saw him, the blood around his three bullet holes had coagulated like red custard, and the wound in his groin was in his pubic hair, and his genitals were covered with clotted blood. His skull had hit the hard floor with such force that a splatter of blood radiated out from his head like a halo. His eyes were still open, so I closed them, which ticked off the CSI people and the crime scene photographers.

  “John? Did she tell you why?”

  “No.” Actually, she did, but she was lying.

  Anna asked me, “Why is she back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “She should burn in hell for what she did.”

  I was getting a little annoyed at Anna’s suggestion that her sainted husband, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa, was the innocent victim of an evil, cold-blooded murderess. I mean, come on, Anna. Your husband was a notorious Mafia don, probably himself a murderer, and for sure an adulterer who screwed more women than he’d had spaghetti dinners at home. So, to use a phrase she’d understand, I should have said, “What goes around, comes around.” And furthermore, Anna, if anyone is burning in hell, it’s your husband. But instead, I said, “Okay, Anna— Tony wants to speak—”

  “You shouldn’t eat there. You don’t know what they put in the food.”

  “Right. Okay—”

  “Next time you’re in Brooklyn, you stop by for coffee or come to Tony’s house for dinner
. Next Sunday. I’ll cook.”

  “Thank you. Take care.” I added, “Ciao,” and handed the cell phone back to Anthony, who will always be Tony to Momma.

  He said into the phone, “Yeah, Ma. I gotta—okay, okay. Stanco’s.” He listened, then said, “I’ll tell her to call you. She’s busy with the kids, Ma. You can call her—”

  Poor Tony. Harriet Sutter was starting to look good.

  He finally hung up, slammed the phone on the table, downed the rest of his Scotch, and said, “What’s the difference between an Italian mother and a Rottweiler?”

  “What?”

  “Eventually, the Rottweiler lets go.”

  I smiled.

  Anthony lit a cigarette and stayed silent awhile, then asked me, “What was she saying?”

  “Your father.”

  He nodded, and we dropped that subject, or, I was certain, tabled it for later.

  The waitress brought the two Scotches and correctly put one glass in front of each of us, then inquired, “You want order now?”

  Anthony informed her, “We don’t have a friggin’ menu.” He added, “Cretina.”

  Maybe I should have suggested Stanco’s.

  Anthony raised his glass and I raised mine. We clinked, and he said, “Salute,” and I said, “Cheers.”

  He said, apropos of Mom, “She and Megan—that’s my wife—they don’t get along.”

  “That can be difficult.”

  “Yeah. Difficult. Megan, you know, she’s Irish, and they have different . . . what do you call it . . . ?”

  “Ethnic traditions? Cultural practices?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, it’s not like I married a melanzana or something.”

  “Right.” That means eggplant, which one would not normally marry, but it’s also Italian slang for a black person. It was all coming back to me. Check, please.

  On the subject of marital bliss in the ’burbs, and because I was curious, I asked him, “How do you like living in Alhambra Estates?”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay . . . but I’d like to move back to the city.” He delivered a hot piece of news by saying, “There’s a million good-looking broads in New York.”