What Felix Mancuso said sounded logical, of course, and certainly if I were Anthony Bellarosa, I’d be more worried about my paesanos and the law than thinking about killing any more people—especially people who, for all he knew, were being protected by the police and the FBI. And yet . . . I knew, deep inside, that this had more to do with revenge than business, and that the revenge murder of Salvatore D’Alessio was just the first of two. Maybe three.
I had a thought, and I said to Mancuso, “I have business in London . . .” I glanced at Susan, who was nodding—“so, I’m thinking that this might be a good time for me and Mrs. Sutter to take a week or so in London, and then maybe a week or two on the Continent.” I added, “In other words, we, too, should go missing.”
He replied without hesitation, “That would be a very good idea at this time—until the situation here becomes more clear.” He added, “If you stay in touch with us, we can keep you up to date on developments.”
“We’ll certainly be interested in news from home. And please don’t hesitate to call us the moment Sally Da-da’s friends whack Anthony.”
Mr. Mancuso never responded well to my murderous remarks regarding Anthony Bellarosa—he was a professional—but he did say, “We’re hoping to locate him first.”
“I hope Uncle Sal’s friends locate him first.”
He ignored that and asked me, “When do you plan on leaving?”
I looked at Susan, and she said, “Tuesday is fine with me.”
Mancuso agreed, “That would be good.” He reminded us, “Keep the particulars of your itinerary to yourselves.”
“We will.”
“And enjoy yourselves. You need a break.”
Mr. Mancuso seemed happy that we were getting out of his bailiwick. Again, he liked us, and he would be personally saddened if we got whacked. And professionally, of course, he would be more than saddened; he would be in the same embarrassing situation he’d been in when Susan whacked his star witness. He certainly didn’t need that aggravation again.
He assured us, “I’m confident that we will catch some breaks while you’re gone, and that Anthony Bellarosa will be either in jail, under tight surveillance, killed by his own people, or frightened into permanent retirement and relocated to Florida or Vegas, where many of his colleagues wind up when they need to give up the business.”
I wasn’t so sure about Anthony retiring and moving away, but I did agree with Felix Mancuso that Anthony’s career was at a crossroads. Not my problem, as long as none of those roads led back to Grace Lane.
I thought, too, of Anthony in hiding, or in exile, and I wondered if he had normal human feelings of missing his family, and not knowing when or if he’d see them again. On the other hand, this was the life he’d chosen. And then, of course, I thought about my own exile. That was not the life I’d chosen—well, maybe it was—but it wasn’t my first choice.
Anyway, Anthony Bellarosa didn’t even know where London was, and he thought Paris was the name of a Vegas hotel. So this was a good idea, and we’d have fun while Anthony was trying to figure out if he was the boss, or if he was in trouble.
I said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’ll call you Tuesday from the airport.”
“Please do.”
I asked him, “Other than being called to the scene of a murder, did you have a good Father’s Day?”
“I did, thank you. And how about you?”
“I had a wonderful day with my children, and my fiancée.” I added, “My mother and future in-laws were here, too.” I informed him, “Everyone will be out of here by tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good.” He asked us, “Are you being . . . cautious?”
“We are,” I assured him. “However, Susan and I did go to Giulio’s for coffee and pastry on Thursday.”
“Did you? Well . . . that was probably a good thing.”
“It was, actually.”
He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, or really to us, “I’ve often wondered . . . what would have been different in all our lives if you hadn’t stopped him from bleeding to death.”
“Well . . . you can be sure I’ve wondered about that myself a few times.” I glanced at Susan, who wasn’t looking at me, and said, “But I would never have let him bleed to death.”
“I know that. And neither would I. But I mean, if you couldn’t have saved his life, and he’d died then and there . . . well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“We would not.” And Susan wouldn’t have killed Frank on Felix Mancuso’s watch, and I wouldn’t have divorced her and been in self-exile for ten years, and Anthony would not now be a threat to our lives. But who knows if something worse might have happened in these last ten years? Like me running off with Beryl Carlisle. I said to Felix Mancuso, but also for Susan, “Well, if we believe in a divine plan, maybe this is going to have a better ending than if Frank Bellarosa had lost one more pint of blood on the floor in Giulio’s restaurant.”
He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, and to Susan, “I’ve thought the same thing. I really believe that . . . well, that there is a purpose to all this, and that part of that purpose is to test us, and to impart some wisdom to us, and to show us what is important, and to make us better people.”
Susan said, “I believe that. And I believe that we have a guardian angel who will watch over us.”
Well, then, I thought, why bother to go to London? But to be on the team, I said, “Me, too.”
Mr. Mancuso said, “Someone here needs to speak to me. Have a good trip, and don’t hesitate to call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” I replied, “and have a good evening.”
“Well . . .”
“Right. Then have a good day tomorrow.”
“You, too.”
Susan said, “And thank you.”
I hung up, and we looked at each other.
Finally, Susan said, “I, too, wonder how our lives would have been if I hadn’t—”
“Stop. We will never—and I mean never—discuss that again.”
Susan nodded. “All right. But maybe there really is a purpose to what happened.”
“Maybe.” And I was sure we didn’t have long to find out what it was.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
I suggested to Susan that we go up to the family room and watch a little of TheGodfather, Part IV: Anthony Whacks Uncle Sal.
She didn’t think that was either funny or something she wanted to do.
Susan picked up the phone and dialed.
I asked, “Who are you calling?”
“Edward.”
“Why? Oh, okay.” A mother’s instinct to protect her children is stronger than a man’s instinct to watch television.
Edward answered his cell phone for a change, and Susan said to him, “Sweetheart, I’d like you to come home now.”
He said something, and she replied, “You have an early morning flight, darling, and your father and I would like to spend a little time with you. Yes, thank you.”
She hung up and said to me, “Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded. Well, if left to his own devices, Edward would roll in at 3:00 A.M., and we’d be up all night with the shotgun waiting for him. I said to Susan, “At least he’ll be out of here tomorrow, and we’ll be in London Tuesday.”
She asked me, “John, do you think there is any danger to the children? I won’t go to London if—”
“They’re in no danger.” I thought about Anthony’s nice, clean hit at Giovanni’s Ristorante, and I also recalled what Anthony himself said to me on his front lawn, and I assured her, “Women and children get a pass . . . well, children anyway.” I further noted, “Carolyn is a district attorney, and that makes her virtually untouchable.”
Susan nodded, “All right . . . then I’m looking forward to London.”
“And then Paris.”
“Good. I haven’t been out of the country since . . . the time we went to Rome.”
Cheap boyfriends. Or provincial bumpkins.
Meanwhile, I’ve been out of the country ten years, and I would have liked to stay around here awhile—but back to London.
She asked, “Am I going to enjoy London with you?”
“I hope so. I want to show you the Imperial War Museum.”
“I can’t wait.” She asked me, “Will there be ladies calling and knocking on your door in London?”
“Ladies? No. Of course not. But maybe we should stay in a hotel.”
She reminded me, “We can’t afford it.”
Another new reality.
So we sat in the office and talked a little about what Mancuso had said, and about how we really saw this situation. Susan was optimistic, and I, too, thought that maybe Anthony Bellarosa had more problems with his paesanos than we had with Anthony. But I wasn’t betting my life, or hers, on that.
We heard Edward pull up, and Susan went to the door and opened it before he unlocked it.
The three of us went up to the family room, and Sophie brought us the leftover cake, then wished us good night.
So we chatted about the day, and about sailboats, and about Susan and me visiting him in Los Angeles, and maybe bringing Grandma Harriet along. Hopefully, she’d like L.A. and stay there. We also told him that we were going to London for a few days, and then someplace else. Edward didn’t need to know where until we got there, and maybe not even then. He also didn’t need to know right now about the Mafia hit in Brooklyn. If he heard about this when he was in L.A., he’d probably put two and two together and realize why we were going to Europe on short notice. Or Carolyn would do the addition for him.
Apropos of nothing that we were discussing, Edward asked, “How did it go with Grandma and Grandpa after we left?”
I let Susan reply, and she said truthfully, “Not too well. But we’ll speak to them again tomorrow.”
He asked, “Why don’t they want you to get married?”
My turn, so I said, “They don’t like me.”
He pointed out, “You’re not marrying them.”
“Good point,” I agreed, “but they see this in a larger context.”
Edward cut through the bullshit, and said, “It’s all about their money.”
“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “it is about their money. But not anymore.”
Susan said to her son, “We—all of us—may experience some financial loss as a result of this marriage.”
“I know that.”
I said to him, “Your mother and I don’t care about us, but we do care about you and Carolyn.”
He informed us, “I spoke to Carolyn about it. We don’t care either.”
Susan and I looked at each other, and she said to Edward, “Let’s see what they say tomorrow.” She reminded him, “You have an early flight.”
He stood and said, “See you in the morning.” Then he asked, “How did they get like that?”
Well, assholes are born, not made.
Susan replied, “I don’t know, but I hope it’s not genetic.”
We all got a laugh out of that, and Edward said good night.
Susan said to me, “I really don’t like discussing this with the children.”
“They’re not children.”
“They are our children, John. And I don’t like that my parents are making them into pawns.”
That was the maternal instinct again. She was worried about what would become of Edward and Carolyn if they were thrown out into the cold cruel world and told to fend for themselves, like the other ninety-nine percent of humanity.
I didn’t share Susan’s concerns—they’d be fine, and they knew they’d be fine, and I believed we raised them to take care of themselves—but I did understand her thinking, which was, “Why should they live without money if millions are available to them?”
In effect, there was a choice here that most people don’t have—millions, or monthly paychecks?
Well, I’d pick the millions—especially if I got the money because William Stanhope died—but I damn sure wouldn’t kiss anyone’s living ass for the money. However, when it’s about your children, you do smooch a little butt.
Bottom line here was that I was standing between three of the Stanhopes and the Stanhope millions.
But, yes, we’d see what happened tomorrow. I knew what William was going to say to Susan, but I wasn’t absolutely sure what Susan was going to say to William—or what she was going to say to me afterwards.
Susan said, “I’m ready for bed.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not going to watch the news, are you?”
“I am.”
“Why do you want to see that, John?”
“Everyone enjoys seeing the coverage of a Mafia hit.” I actually hadn’t seen a real mob hit on TV since Sally Tries to Whack Frank, in which I had a supporting role.
Susan announced, “I’m going to bed.”
“Good night.”
She gave me a quick kiss and left.
It was 11:00 P.M., so I turned on the TV, and found the local cable channel where I’d seen Jenny Alvarez.
And sure enough, there she was, saying, “Our top story tonight is the brazen gangland murder of Salvatore D’Alessio”—a photograph of a Neanderthal came on the screen—“a reputed capo in one of New York’s organized crime families—”
The caveman’s face was replaced by the lighted exterior of Giovanni’s Ristorante, which was not a bad-looking place. Mancuso seemed to like it, so maybe Susan and I should take Carolyn there. The owner was no doubt upset that his patrons had to witness a man’s head being blown off at dinner, and upset, too, that everyone had left before he could present them with a bill. But he must know that he would make this up in the weeks ahead. New Yorkers love to go to a restaurant where a mob hit has gone down. Look at Giulio’s, for instance, or Sparks, where Paul Castellano had been whacked by Gotti. Still going strong. Free publicity is better than paid advertising, not to mention the restaurant achieving mythic status, and getting an extra bullet or two in the Italian Restaurant Guide.
Well, I’m being silly, so I turned my attention back to the television. There was a lot of police activity out front, and Jenny’s voice was saying, “. . . here at this neighborhood Italian restaurant in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Salvatore D’Alessio was once the underboss to the infamous Frank Bellarosa, who was murdered ten years ago at his palatial Long Island mansion by a woman who was reputed to be his mistress.”
Reputed? Why didn’t Jenny say Susan’s name and show a picture of her? Well, maybe they were afraid of a lawsuit. Right. Susan was Frank Bellarosa’s killer, but only his reputed mistress. I might even represent Susan if Jenny mentioned her by name as Frank’s mistress or girlfriend. That would be interesting—Sutter v. Cable News 8, Jenny Alvarez, et al. John Sutter for the plaintiff. Is it true, Mr. Sutter, that you were screwing Ms. Alvarez, and she dumped you? No, sir, we shook hands and parted as friends.
Oh what tangled webs we weave, when we stick it in and then we leave.
Anyway, Jenny was saying, “Bellarosa himself had been the target of an attempted mob hit, ten years ago, and it is believed that tonight’s victim, Salvatore D’Alessio, had been behind that botched attempt on Bellarosa’s life. And now, Salvatore D’Alessio—known in the underworld as Sally Da-da—has been murdered, and sources close to the investigation are speculating that the man behind this mob hit is Frank Bellarosa’s son, Tony—”
“Anthony! Don’t say Tony.”
There didn’t seem to be a photograph of Anthony available, and Jenny went on a bit as some old footage of Frank Bellarosa came on the screen—Frank on the courthouse steps on the day I’d gotten him sprung on bail—and I actually caught a glimpse of myself. Bad tie.
And at that moment, unfortunately, Susan walked into the family room, looked at Frank Bellarosa on the TV screen, froze, then turned and left without a word.
Well, it was a little jarring to see Frank on television, looking good, smoking a cigar, and joking with the press. He h
adn’t looked as lively the last time I saw him, in his coffin.
I should have shut off the TV and gone to bed, but this was important—not to mention entertaining.
Jenny was now saying, “So, if these rumors are true, then it appears that, after ten years, some chickens have come home to roost among the organized crime families of New York.”
Also, don’t forget—what you sow, you reap.
She continued, “According to reliable sources in law enforcement, Tony Bellarosa has been missing from his home, his place of business, and his usual haunts for about a week, and he did not attend the Gotti funeral yesterday.”
Then she went on about the apparent power struggle that was developing as a result of the vacuum created by Mr. Gotti’s death, and so forth, which brought her back to Anthony and Uncle Sal, then to Anthony’s father, Frank, and then . . . there I was again, standing next to Frank on the steps of the courthouse. Jenny continued her off-screen reporting, and there was no soundtrack for the film, but I was answering a question that had been asked to me by none other than a younger Jenny Alvarez. I hadn’t aged a day. At that point, Jenny and I were not even friends—in fact, she’d been a ballbuster on the courthouse steps, and I’d taken an immediate dislike to her, and her to me. And then . . . well, hate turned to lust, as it often does.
Jenny was back on the screen, and this was another opportunity for her to mention me by name as the handsome and brilliant attorney for the dead don, whom we’d just seen on the screen. But she wasn’t giving me an on-air mention—just that few seconds of old news footage. Surely she remembered that night at the Plaza. Instead, she reported, “Another interesting angle to this story is that Tony Bellarosa is the nephew of the victim, Salvatore D’Alessio. Bellarosa’s mother and D’Alessio’s wife—now his widow—are sisters. So, if these rumors about Tony Bellarosa’s involvement in this gangland slaying are true, then this gives us a glimpse into the ruthless—” and so forth.
Well, I don’t know about ruthless. To be honest, the only difference between me and Anthony in regard to whacking an annoying relative was that Anthony knew who to call to have it done while he was out of town. I wish I knew who to call when I was in London—1–800-MOBCLIP? Just kidding.
The Gate House Page 61
