Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “Well . . .”

  “So what I want is, I want Susan to show Anna the ropes around here. You know? Take her around, meet some people. Maybe you’ll show me that place over there. The Creek. If I like it, I’ll join up.”

  My stomach heaved again. “Well—”

  “Yeah. It just takes time. You talk to Susan.”

  I had a maliciously bright thought. “Susan belongs to the Gazebo Society. She can take Anna to the next meeting.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Good question, Frank. I explained about the Victorian clothes and the picnic hampers.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Me neither. Let Susan explain it to Anna.”

  “Yeah. Hey, look down there.’’ He pointed with the stub of his cigar.

  I looked down at the expansive Spanish patio, lit with amber post lights.

  “You see that? Next to the barbecue? That’s a pizza oven. I had that built. I can make pizza right out there. I can bake ziti, I can heat stuff up. Whaddaya think?”

  “Very practical.”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced at Bellarosa. He had put his glass on the ledge and had ground out his cigar. He had his arms folded across his chest now as he surveyed the huge patio, the size of a piazza, below him. He caught me looking at him and laughed. “Yeah. Like this.’’ He thrust his chin out in a passable impersonation of Mussolini. He looked at me. “Is that what you’re thinking? Frank Bellarosa thinks he’s Il Duce. Right?”

  “No comment.”

  He thrust his hands into his pockets. “You know, all Italians want to be Il Duce, Caesar, the boss. Nobody wants to be under nobody else. That’s why Italy is so fucked up, and that’s why people like me have people like Anthony around. Because every wop with a gun, a grudge, and fifty cents’ worth of ambition wants to knock off the emperor. Capisce?”

  “Do you trust Anthony?”

  “Nah. I don’t trust nobody but family. I don’t trust my paesanos. Maybe I can trust you.”

  “And you sleep well at night?”

  “Like a baby. I told you, nobody has an accident in their own house.”

  “But you carry a gun in your own house.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.’’ He stayed silent awhile, then said, “I got some problems lately. I take precautions. I’ve got to get the bugs worked out of the security here.”

  “But you just said your house is sacrosanct.”

  “Yeah. But you got your Spanish now, and you got your Jamaicans, your Asians. They got to learn the rules here. They got to learn that when you’re in Rome, you do as the Romans do. Who said that? Saint Augustine?”

  “Saint Ambrose.”

  He looked at me and our eyes met. Here was a man, I suddenly realized, who had a major problem.

  He said, “Let’s go inside.’’ He went back into the library and sat in his chair. He poured himself another grappa as I sat across from him.

  My eyes fell on the school books on the shelf behind him. I couldn’t make out the titles, but I was reasonably certain that most of the great thinkers, philosophers, and theologians of Western culture were up there, and that Frank Bellarosa had absorbed their words into his impressionable young mind. But he had apparently missed the essential message of the words, the message of God, of civilization, and of humanity. Or worse, he understood the message and had consciously chosen a life of evil, just as his son was going to do. How utterly depressing. I said to him, “Well, thanks for the drink.’’ I looked at my watch.

  He seemed not to hear me and sat back in his chair, sipping his drink, then said, “You probably read in the papers that I killed a guy. A Colombian drug dealer.”

  This was not your normal Gold Coast brandy-and-cigars talk and I didn’t know quite how to respond, but then I said, “Yes, I did. The papers made you a hero.”

  He smiled. “Shows how fucked up we are. I’m a fucking hero. Right? I’m smart enough to know better.”

  Indeed he was. I was impressed.

  He said, “This country is running scared. They want a gunslinger to come in and clean up the fucking mess. Well, I’m not here to do the government’s job for them.”

  I nodded. That was what I had told Mr. Mancuso.

  Bellarosa added, “Frank Bellarosa works for Frank Bellarosa. Frank Bellarosa takes care of his family and his friends. I don’t want anybody thinking I’m part of the solution. I’m definitely part of the problem. Don’t you ever think otherwise.”

  “I never did.”

  “Good. Then we’re off on the right foot.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Who knows?”

  I picked up my glass and sipped at the grappa. It didn’t taste any better. I said, “Alphonse Ferragamo doesn’t think you’re a hero.”

  “No. That son of a bitch has a hard-on for me.”

  “Maybe you embarrass him. I mean as an Italian American.”

  Bellarosa smiled. “You think that’s it? Wrong. You got a lot to learn about Italians, my friend. Alphonse Ferragamo has a personal vendetta against me.”

  “Why?”

  He thought a moment, then said, “I’ll tell ya. I made a fool out of him in court once. Not me personally. My attorney. But that don’t make a difference. This was seven, eight years ago. Ferragamo was the U.S. prosecutor on my case. Some bullshit charge that wouldn’t hold. My guy, Jack Weinstein, got the jury to laugh at him, and Alphonse’s balls shrunk to little nicciole—hazelnuts. I told Weinstein he fucked up. You don’t do that to an Italian in public. I knew I’d hear from Ferragamo again. Now the jackass is the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and I got to live with him or move.”

  “I see.’’ And all this time I thought Alphonse Ferragamo was a dedicated public servant. In truth, I didn’t completely believe Frank Bellarosa’s analysis of Ferragamo’s motives. Thinking that I’d heard enough, I said, “I have an early day tomorrow.”

  Bellarosa ignored this and said, “Ferragamo can’t get anything on me, so he tells the papers that I hit this Colombian guy, Juan Carranza.”

  My eyes rolled a bit. I said, “I really can’t believe that a U.S. Attorney would frame you.”

  He smiled at me as though I were simpleminded. “Not to frame me, Counselor. You really got a lot to learn.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah. You see, Ferragamo wants to get the Colombians on my case. Capisce? He wants them to do his dirty work.”

  I sat up in my chair. “Kill you?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  I found this even harder to believe. I said, “Are you telling me that the U.S. Attorney is trying to get you murdered?”

  “Yeah. You don’t believe that? You a Boy Scout or what? You salute the flag every morning? You people got a lot to learn.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Bellarosa leaned toward me. “Alphonse Ferragamo wants my ass dead. He don’t want my ass in court again. He is a very pissed off paesan’. Capisce? He stewed for eight fucking years waiting for his chance to get even. And if I get hit by the Colombians, Ferragamo will make sure everybody on the street knows he was behind it. Then he’s happy and he has his balls back.’’ He looked me in the eye. “Okay?”

  I shook my head. “Not everyone thinks like you do. Why don’t you give the guy credit for just doing his job? He thinks you killed somebody.”

  “Bullshit.’’ He leaned back and twirled his glass.

  “I have to go.”

  “No. Just sit there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked at me and I looked back. I finally saw don Bellarosa for a second or two. But then Frank was sitting there again. It must have been the light. He said, “Let me finish, Counselor. Okay? You’re a smart guy, but you don’t have the facts. Hey, I don’t care if you think I hit this Colombian guy. But there’s two, three, four sides to everything. A smart guy like you sees two sides, maybe three. But I’ll show you another side, so when you walk out of here, you’ll be a better ci
tizen.’’ He smiled. “Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. So when those assholes in Washington made Ferragamo the U.S. Attorney here, they knew what they were doing, for a change. They got it all figured out, those smart guys in the Justice Department. They want the Colombians to hit me, then my friends start hitting the Colombians, and the undertakers are happy, and the Feds are happy. The melanzane are not happy because now they have to go back to cheap wine because the white stuff is cut off while the stiffs are piling up. Understand? This talk make you uncomfortable?”

  “No—”

  “So the next time you talk to Mancuso out there, you tell him what I just told you. Mancuso is okay for a cop. He’s got nothing against me personally, and I got nothing against him. We treat each other with respect. He believes in the law. I respect him for that even if it’s stupid. He don’t want a shooting war out there on the streets. He’s a very responsible man.”

  “You want me to pass on this conversation to Mancuso?”

  “Sure. Why not? Let him go to Ferragamo and tell him that Bellarosa is onto his game.”

  “You’ve been reading too much Machiavelli.”

  “You think so?”

  “Are you suggesting that not only Ferragamo, but the U.S. Attorney General and the Justice Department in Washington are in on a conspiracy to have you murdered and provoke a gang war?”

  “Sure. Why do you think Alphonse is still here? It’s so fucking obvious what he’s up to with this Carranza shit. If Justice don’t yank the guy out of here or tell him to cool it, then Justice is in on it. Right?”

  “Your logic—”

  “Then with the two biggest players blasting away at each other, the Feds take care of the Jamaicans and the other melanzane down there in the islands. Then they go for the Asians. Divide and conquer. Right?”

  I shrugged. “I do house closings.”

  “Yeah. Let’s say you buy what I’m saying. How do you feel about it as a good citizen?”

  What I felt was distressed to think that the forces of law and order in this country were so desperate that they had to stoop to Bellarosa’s level to get rid of Bellarosa. But I said, “As a good citizen, I would be . . . angry to think the government would provoke a dangerous gang war.”

  “Sure. But you kinda like the idea. Right? The spics and the wops finally knocking each other off?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No comment.’’ I asked, “Why don’t you go to the newspapers if you believe what you’re saying?”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  “They’d print it.”

  “You bet your ass they would. They print it when I fart. But you don’t go public with your problems in my business. You shoot your mouth off to the press, and you piss off everybody, including your friends who don’t even admit there’s such a thing as the Mafia. You start talking to the press about your enemies, and your friends will kill you.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re a lawyer.”

  “I’m not your lawyer.’’ I added, “Anyway, it’s not a lawyer you need. You need bodyguards.’’ Or a psychiatrist.

  “Yeah. But I need some outside advice. I listened to my friends, my counselors, to Jack Weinstein. Now I want to hear from somebody who sees things different from the people around me.”

  “You want my advice? Retire. Go to Sorrento.”

  “You don’t retire in the business. Did any of the Caesars retire? You can’t set everything straight with the people you pissed off, you can’t raise the dead, you can’t go to the government and say, ‘I’m sorry, and I’m paying the taxes I cheated on and giving back all the businesses I bought with the illegal money.’ You can’t let go of the tiger, because he’ll turn and eat you. You got to stay on the tiger and keep the power in your hands.”

  “No. You can go to Sorrento.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I like what I do. Keeps me busy.”

  “You like the power.”

  “Sure. Sorrento is for when I’m old. When I’m tired of power, business, women. I got a few years yet.”

  “Maybe not.”

  He looked at me. “I don’t run. The spics are not running Frank Bellarosa off. The Feds are not running Frank Bellarosa off. Capisce?”

  “Now I do.”

  We both sat there a few minutes. I had the impression he was waiting for me to say something, to come up with some advice. As an attorney, I’m in the advice business, but I’m not predisposed to giving free and friendly advice. I said, “Are we finished?”

  “Almost. Here’s the thing. Ferragamo can’t be shooting his mouth off to the press that I’m a suspect in the murder of Juan Carranza, and let it go like that. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s got to follow up with a grand jury investigation.”

  “Correct.”

  “So, what I’m thinking is I want you to handle this for me.”

  “If I wouldn’t handle a real estate deal for you, why would I represent you in a criminal matter?”

  “Because one thing is money, the other is justice.”

  He didn’t choke on that last word, but I almost did. I shook my head. “I don’t handle criminal matters. I’m not qualified.”

  “Sure you are. You’re a lawyer.”

  “What kind of evidence is Ferragamo going to present to a grand jury to get you indicted?”

  “He don’t have shit. But you ever hear that expression—‘a New York grand jury will indict a ham sandwich’? You hear that?”

  “Yes.’’ New York grand juries are sort of like Star Chambers; twenty-three upright citizens sit in secret sessions, and the person under investigation is not present and neither is his attorney. So, without any evidence except what is presented by the government, the grand jury usually votes to indict. It was a safe bet to say that Frank Bellarosa would be indicted. I said, “You think Ferragamo is just harassing you with this indictment?”

  “Yeah. A regular jury won’t convict me, because Ferragamo’s got no evidence for them. So Frank Bellarosa versus the United States is not getting to trial. But meanwhile, Ferragamo’s calling press conferences. He loves fucking press conferences. He’s telling everybody that the Mafia is pushing out the Colombians, the Jamaicans, blah, blah, blah. That’s bullshit. We all got our own thing. Then he says, ‘Bellarosa personally hit Juan Carranza to show them spics a lesson!’ Understand? So the Colombians get their balls in an uproar—they get all macho. Christ, they’re worse than Italians. Now they want to settle this mano a mano. Carranza was a big man with them. Okay, so now I got to worry about my own people, too. Understand? Because they don’t want a fucking bloodbath, because they’re all fat and soft. The South Americans are hungry and hard. They’re the new guys and they work harder. They don’t have the fucking brains they were born with, but they manage to get things done. Okay, maybe they’re too stupid to get at me. You know? So what do they do? They go to my friends and they say, ‘Hey, let’s settle this before Frank goes to trial, before people start getting hurt. We all got enough problems and we don’t need this shit with Bellarosa.’ So maybe my guys say, ‘We’ll take care of Frank.’ You see? The sons-of-bitches would give me up to save their own asses. Even though they know I didn’t hit Carranza. Ten, twenty years ago, an Italian would say to a spic, ‘Fuck you. Get out of here before I feed you your balls for lunch.’ But things are different now. There’s a whole new world out there. Understand?”

  That, I understood. Now I discover that even the Mafia are having trouble adapting to this new New World. I said, “That’s absolutely fascinating, Frank. And I don’t really see any way out for you.”

  He laughed. “Maybe something will come into your head. I need a very upright lawyer to go talk to Ferragamo. He’s the key. He’s got to call one of his press conferences and say that he has new evidence about who hit Carranza, or say he’s got no evidence at all. You talk to him about that.”

 
“But maybe I don’t believe your side of this.”

  “You will when you see Ferragamo’s face after you tell him I know what he’s up to.”

  Bellarosa, I realized, was a man who believed in his instincts. He would not need hard evidence, for instance, before he ordered the murder of someone he suspected of disloyalty. Like a primitive tribunal, all that Bellarosa required was the look of guilt, perhaps a word or phrase that seemed somehow wrong. And in the case of Alphonse Ferragamo, Frank Bellarosa first figured out a motive, then presumed the man guilty of the crime. I don’t deny the value of instinct—I hope I use my instincts in court, and police use instinct every day on the streets. But Frank Bellarosa, whose good instincts had kept him free and alive, perhaps put too much faith in his ability to spot danger, tell friends from enemies, and to read people’s minds and hearts. That was why I was sitting there; because Bellarosa had sized me up in a few minutes and decided I was his man. I wondered if he was right.

  Bellarosa continued, “The New York State Attorney General, Lowenstein, don’t even want a piece of this case. I hear from some people close to him that he thinks it’s bullshit. What’s that tell you, Counselor?”

  “I’m not sure, and I still don’t do criminal work.”

  “Hey, you might have fun. Think about it.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good.’’ He settled back in his chair. “Hey, I’m doing that real estate deal next week. I got that firm in Glen Cove you said. They gave me this guy Torrance. You know him? He any good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I don’t want no screwups.”

  “Real estate contracts and closings are fairly simple if you pay attention to detail.”

  “Then you should’ve done it, Counselor.”

  I regarded Bellarosa a moment. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just considered me a fool. I said, “We’ve been through that.”

  “Yeah. But I want you to know you’re the first guy who ever turned down that kind of money from me.”

  “That’s discouraging.”