Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Sally Roosevelt was née Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I’m certain that nearly all of Grace Lane’s residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident, I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it.

  At about six P . M ., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts.

  Jim said unnecessarily, “I think someone is looking for you.”

  I excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr. Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court.

  “Hello, Mr. Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?”

  “You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?’’ No, I didn’t actually say that. I said, “That’s all right.”

  He extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, “I don’t play tennis.”

  “Neither do I,’’ I replied.

  He laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humor, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.

  Bellarosa was dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not très chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewelry, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.

  “It’s a nice day,’’ said Mr. Bellarosa with genuine delight.

  I could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I’ll bet Mrs. Bellarosa hadn’t spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. “Unusually warm for this time of year,’’ I agreed.

  “Some place you got here,’’ he said.

  “Thank you,’’ I replied.

  “You been here long?”

  “Three hundred years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I mean my family. But my wife’s family built this place in 1906.”

  “No kidding?”

  “You can look it up.”

  “Yeah.’’ He looked around. “Some place.”

  I regarded Mr. Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, gray at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I’m six feet, so he was about average height. I’d say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere—court records, for instance.

  He had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn’t think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women might find him attractive.

  Frank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. “Your guy—what’s his name . . . ?”

  “George.”

  “Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn’t interrupt your game.”

  Mr. Bellarosa’s tone told me he wasn’t happy with George.

  I replied, “That’s all right.’’ George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbor. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr. Bellarosa. I asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to say hello.”

  “That’s good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why?”

  “Well . . . that’s the way it’s done.”

  “Yeah? No one’s stopped by yet.”

  “Now that’s odd. Perhaps no one is sure you’re there.’’ This conversation was getting weird, so I said, “Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown.”

  “Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on.’’ He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed.

  Bellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George’s body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. “Here. I bought too much. You really don’t have a vegetable garden?”

  “No.’’ I looked at the plastic tray. “I guess I do now.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don’t know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?”

  “Well . . . slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash—”

  “What?”

  “Glacial . . . silty, pebbly in places—”

  “All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables. You’ll thank me in August.”

  “I thank you in April.”

  “Yeah. Put that down. Not on the car.”

  I put the tray down on the ground.

  Bellarosa pulled a clear plastic bag from the trunk, inside of which was a mass of purplish leaves.

  “Here,’’ he said. “This is radicchio. You know? Like lettuce.”

  I took the bag and examined the ragged leaves with polite interest. “Very nice.”

  “I grew it.”

  “You must have warmer weather over there.”

  Bellarosa laughed. “No, I grew it inside. You know, my place has this room—like a greenhouse . . . the real estate lady said it . . .”

  “A conservatory.”

  “Yeah. Like a greenhouse, except it’s part of the house. So I got that fixed up first thing in January. Every pane was broken, and the gas heater was gone. Cost me twenty thousand bucks, but I’m getting onions and lettuce already.”

  “Very expensive onions and lettuce,’’ I observed.

  “Yeah. But what the hell.”

  I should tell you that Bellarosa’s accent was definitely not Locust Valley, but neither was it pure Brooklyn. Accents being important around here, I’ve developed an ear for them, as have most people I know. I can usually tell which of the city’s five boroughs a person is from, or which of the surrounding suburban counties. I can sometimes tell which prep school a person has gone to, or if he’s gone to Yale as I have. Frank Bellarosa did not go to Yale, but occasionally there was something odd, almost prep school, in his accent if not his choice of words. But mostly I could hear the streets of Brooklyn in his voice.

  Against my better judgment, I asked, “Where did you live before Lattingtown?”

  “Where? Oh, Williamsburg.’’ He looked at me. “That’s in Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Great place. Used to be a great place. Too many . . . foreigners now. I grew up in Williamsburg. My whole family is from there. My grandfather lived on Havemeyer Street when he came over.”

  I assumed Mr. Bellarosa’s grandfather came over from a foreign country, undoubtedly Italy, and I’m sure the old Germans and Irish of Williamsburg did not welcome him with hugs and schnitzels. When this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europea
ns had only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding waves of immigrants had it a little rougher; they had to buy or rent. I didn’t think Mr. Bellarosa was interested in any of these ironies, so I said, “Well, I do hope you find Long Island to your liking.”

  “Yeah. I know Long Island. I went to boarding school out here.”

  He didn’t offer any more, so I didn’t press it, though I wondered what boarding school Frank Bellarosa could possibly have attended. I thought that might be his way of saying reform school. I said, “Thanks again for the lettuce.”

  “Eat it quick. Just picked. A little oil and vinegar.”

  I wondered if the horses would like it without oil and vinegar. “Sure will. Well—”

  “That your daughter?”

  Bellarosa was looking over my shoulder, and I glanced back and saw Susan coming down the path. I turned back to Bellarosa. “My wife.”

  “Yeah?’’ He watched Susan approaching. “I saw her riding a horse one day on my property.”

  “She sometimes rides horses.”

  He looked at me. “Hey, if she wants to ride around my place, it’s okay. She probably rode there before I bought the place. I don’t want any hard feelings. I got a couple hundred acres, and the horse shit is good for the soil. Right?”

  “It’s excellent for roses.”

  Susan walked directly up to Frank Bellarosa and extended her hand. “I’m Susan Sutter. You must be our new neighbor.”

  Bellarosa hesitated a moment before taking her hand, and I guessed that men in his world did not shake hands with women. He said, “Frank Bellarosa.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Bellarosa. John told me he met you at the nursery a few weeks ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bellarosa maintained good eye contact, though I did see his eyes drop to Susan’s legs for half a second. I wasn’t altogether pleased that Susan hadn’t put on her warm-up pants and that she was presenting herself to a total stranger in a tennis skirt that barely covered her crotch.

  Susan said to Bellarosa, “You must forgive us for not calling on you, but we weren’t certain if you were settled in and receiving.”

  Bellarosa seemed to ponder this a moment. This receiving business must have been giving him problems. Susan, I should point out, slips into her Lady Stanhope role when she wants to cause certain people to be uncomfortable. I don’t know if this is defensive or offensive.

  Bellarosa did not seem uncomfortable, though he seemed a little more tentative with Susan than he had been with me. Maybe Susan’s legs were distracting him. He said to her, “I was just telling your husband I saw you riding a horse on my place once or twice. No problem.”

  I thought he was about to mention the scatological side benefits to himself, but he just smiled at me. I did not return the smile. This was indeed a horse shit day, I thought.

  Susan said to Mr. Bellarosa, “That’s very good of you. I should point out, however, that it is local custom here to allow for equestrian right of way. You may mark specific bridle paths if you wish. However, if the hunt is ever reinstated, the horses will follow the dogs, who are, in turn, following the scent. You’ll be notified.”

  Frank Bellarosa looked at Susan for a long moment, and neither of them blinked. Bellarosa then surprised me by saying in a cool tone, “I guess there’s a lot I don’t understand yet, Mrs. Sutter.”

  I thought I should change the subject to something he did understand, so I held up the plastic bag. “Susan, Mr. Bellarosa grew this lettuce—radicchio, it’s called—in Alhambra’s conservatory.”

  Susan glanced at the bag and turned back to Bellarosa. She said, “Oh, did you have that repaired? That’s very nice.”

  “Yeah. The place is coming along.”

  “And these seedlings . . . ,’’ I added, indicating the tray on the ground, “vegetables for our garden.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you,’’ Susan said.

  Bellarosa smiled at Susan. “Your husband told me you eat flowers.”

  “No, sir, I eat thorns. Thank you for stopping by.”

  Bellarosa ignored the implied brush-off and turned to me. “What’s your place called? It’s got a name, right?”

  “Yes,’’ I replied. “Stanhope Hall.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well . . . it’s named after Susan’s great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope. He built it.”

  “Yeah. You said that. Am I supposed to name my place?”

  “It has a name,’’ I said.

  “Yeah, I know that. The real estate lady told me. Alhambra. That’s how I get my mail. There’s no house number. You believe that? But should I give the place a new name or what?”

  Susan replied, “You may, if you wish. Some people do. Others keep the original name. Do you have a name in mind?”

  Frank Bellarosa thought a moment, then shook his head. “Nah. Alhambra’s okay for now. Sounds Spanish though. I’ll think about it.”

  “If we can be of any help with a name,’’ Susan said, “do let us know.”

  “Thanks. You think I should put up a sign with the name of the place? I see signs on some of the places. You guys don’t have a sign.”

  “It’s entirely up to you,’’ I assured our new neighbor. “But if you change the name, notify the post office.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Susan added—baitingly, I thought, “Some people just put their own names out front. But others, especially if they have well-known names, don’t.”

  Bellarosa looked at her and smiled. He said, “I don’t think it would be a good idea to put my name out front, do you, Mrs. Sutter?”

  “No, I don’t, Mr. Bellarosa.”

  Now I was getting uncomfortable. “Well,’’ I said, “we’d better get back to our guests.”

  Bellarosa hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m having a little Easter thing tomorrow. Some friends, a little family. Nothing fancy. Traditional Italian Easter foods.’’ He smiled. “I went to Brooklyn to get capozella. Lamb’s head. But we got the rest of the lamb, too. About two o’clock. Okay?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right about the lamb’s head. I replied, “I’m afraid we’ve got another Easter thing to go to.”

  “Yeah? Well, see if you can drop by for ten minutes and I’ll show you the place. Have a drink. Okay?’’ He looked at Susan.

  She replied, “We will certainly try to join you. But if we can’t, have a very joyous and blessed Easter.”

  “Thanks.’’ Bellarosa shut the trunk and went to his car door. “You mind if I drive around a little?”

  Susan said, “Not at all. That’s a rather long car to try to turn on this lane, so go on up to the main house and turn in the circle.”

  I knew if I wanted to annoy Susan I should tell Mr. Bellarosa that the old homestead was up for sale, but I figured we had enough to talk about for one day.

  Bellarosa looked at us over the top of his car, and we looked back. It was a contest, or maybe the first skirmish in the clash of cultures, I thought. Susan and I were both raised never to be rude to social inferiors unless they presented themselves to you as equals. Then you could massacre them. But Mr. Frank Bellarosa was not trying to put on any airs or ask for honorary gentry status. He was what he was and he didn’t care enough about us to pretend he was something else.

  I was reminded of my first impression of him, of a conqueror, curious about the effete society he had just trampled, maybe a little amused by the inhabitants, and certainly monumentally unimpressed by a culture that couldn’t defend itself against people like Frank Bellarosa. This, I would learn later, was an accurate first impression and was, as I discovered from the man himself, part of the Italian psyche. But at that moment, I was just glad he was leaving. I knew, of course, I would see him again, if not to eat lamb’s head together on Easter, then some other time in the near future. But I did not know, nor could I have possibly guessed, to what extent we three would bring ruin and disaster on one another.

 
Bellarosa smiled at us, and I was struck again by that gentle mouth. He said bluntly, “I’m going to be a good neighbor. Don’t worry. We’ll get along.’’ He ducked into his car and drove off up the sun-dappled lane.

  I handed Susan the bag of lettuce. “Oil and vinegar.’’ I added, “You were a bit snooty.”

  “Me? How about you?’’ She asked, “Well, do you want to drop by for a quick lamb’s ear or something?”

  “I think not.”

  She stayed silent a moment, then said, “It just might be interesting.”

  I said, “Susan, you’re strange.”

  She replied in a husky voice, “Yeah? Ya think so?’’ She laughed and turned back toward the tennis courts. I left the tray of seedlings on the ground and followed. “Do you think I should plant vegetables this year?”

  “You’d better.’’ She laughed again. “This is bizarre.”

  The word was scary, not bizarre, and we both knew that. Not scary in the physical sense perhaps; we weren’t going to get rubbed out for not showing up at Bellarosa’s house or not planting his seedlings or even for being a little curt with him. But scary in the sense that the man had the power to have people who annoyed him rubbed out. And despite Susan’s aloofness and what I hoped was my cool indifference toward the man, you did not deal with Frank the Bishop Bellarosa in the same way you dealt with the Remsens, the Eltons, or the DePauws. And the reason for that was not too subtle: Frank Bellarosa was a killer.

  Susan said, “Maybe ‘Casa Bellarosa.’”

  “What?”

  “His place. Maybe I’ll get a nice sign made as a housewarming gift. Something in mother-of-pearl. Casa Bellarosa.”

  I didn’t reply to what I thought was nearly an ethnic slur.

  Susan pulled a leaf of radicchio from the plastic bag and munched on it. “A little bitter. It does need some oil or something. But very fresh. Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Should we have introduced Mr. Bellarosa to the Roosevelts? You know, like, ‘Jim and Sally, may I present our newest friend and neighbor, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa?’ Or would one say ‘don Bellarosa,’ to impress the Roosevelts?”

  “Don’t be inane.’’ I asked Susan, “What did you think of him?”