Wow. I let go of the wheel and leaned back against the rail. Yes, I could easily picture Bellarosa, wielding a lead pipe, cigar in his mouth, cracking a man’s bones because of some suspicion of thievery. In truth, Bellarosa would have broken old Richard’s arm for taking his salad away if we had been in Bellarosa’s club rather than mine. And this was the man whom Susan liked. I watched the wheel move to and fro as the rising wind and current carried the boat farther out. Evil and viciousness, I thought, are only fully understandable in anecdotal form. To hear that a man murdered nine nameless people to get to the top is distressful, but to hear in detail how he smashed Vito Posilico’s face and teeth with a lead pipe is gut wrenching.
Mr. Mancuso broke into my thoughts. “Why would a man like you associate with a man like that?”
“Are you here on government business, Mr. Mancuso, or are you here to save my soul?”
“Both, Mr. Sutter, as they happen to coincide.’’ He regarded me a moment, then said, “I don’t know you, but I know a lot about you. I know that you are a church-going man, a law-abiding citizen, a family man, a successful and respected attorney, a respected member of your community, and an army veteran. Frank Bellarosa is a malignancy on society, a vicious criminal, and a man whose soul is going to burn in hell for eternity.”
That last thing caught me by surprise, and I must have shown it. I replied, “I’m not arguing with you. Come to the point.”
“I would like your help.”
“How?”
“We have a court order to tap Bellarosa’s phones. But he knows that, of course, and he doesn’t say anything on the telephone, so—”
“And you overheard my conversations with him?”
“Yes. We know about the variance, the stables, and about his asking you to walk with him to Fox Point. Incidentally, you have a good sense of humor. And I’m happy to discover that you are not intimidated by him. He puts up with a lot of your sarcasm. I wonder why.”
“I think it goes over his thick head, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, we know that you and your wife went there one night, of course, and I have photos of you waving at us, and photos of you walking with Bellarosa to Fox Point. We know, too, that you took him and his wife to your country club, and that this caused you some problems with your friends. Also, we’ve heard your wife talking with Mrs. Bellarosa on the phone, and even with Mr. Bellarosa a few times.’’ He watched me a moment, then added, “Your wife spends a good deal of time at Alhambra. We understand that she is painting a picture of the house. Correct?”
“My wife is a professional painter. Artists, writers, and whores work for anyone with the cash.”
“But attorneys don’t?”
“Depends on the cash.”
“Your wife did not charge the Bellarosas for the painting.”
“How do you know that?”
“There are things I know that I would be happy to share with you, Mr. Sutter, if you would do me a few favors.”
I did not reply.
He said, “What we need is for you to plant three or four bugs in Bellarosa’s house. One in his den, one in the entranceway, maybe one in his greenhouse where we see him talking to his goombahs, and definitely one in the kitchen where he probably does most of his business because he’s Italian.’’ Mr. Mancuso flashed all his Chiclets.
“How about his bedroom?”
“We don’t do that.’’ He added, “Not too much goes on there anyway.’’ He walked toward me on the rolling boat and put his hand on my arm as though to steady himself. “Can we count on you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well . . . I’m his attorney.”
He took a step back as if I’d said I had a communicable disease. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am. Specifically, he wants me to represent him in the matter of the murder of Juan Carranza.’’ I studied Mr. Mancuso’s face and saw it was not a happy face.
He went to the portside rail and looked out to sea awhile.
I realized that I had made a tactical blunder in relating this to him if Bellarosa actually wanted it to remain a secret until his arrest, arraignment, and bail hearing. But that was a small mistake, and I was bound to make a few more since I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings. Also, Bellarosa had, at one point, wanted me to speak to Mancuso about Ferragamo, so I was not actually violating a privileged conversation. I said to Mancuso, “Do you want to know why I agreed to represent him?”
Without turning around, Mancuso replied, “I could speculate, Mr. Sutter, and if I did, I would say it had nothing to do with cash.”
“No, it doesn’t. In fact, I’m repaying a favor. But the main reason is that I believe Bellarosa is innocent of that particular allegation.”
He turned toward me. “Do you? Why do you believe that?”
“Among other reasons, because Bellarosa has convinced me that the U.S. Attorney, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, is framing him for that murder. Actually not just framing him, but setting him up to be murdered by the Colombians or by Bellarosa’s own people to keep the peace with the Colombians.’’ I watched Mr. Mancuso closely.
He has a very expressive face, which is not good for a cop, and I could see that he did not find this statement absurd. Bellarosa was right about watching faces when I made this accusation. I said to Mr. Mancuso, “I will relate to you what Bellarosa told me.’’ And for the next ten minutes, I did just that. I concluded by saying, “Bellarosa said you are an honest man. So if you are, then tell me honestly, does this sound plausible to you?”
He stared down at the deck for a full minute, then without looking up at me replied, “A United States Attorney is not going to jeopardize his career and his very freedom for personal revenge.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so three months ago, but’’—I affected an Italian accent—“but now I’ma learna abouta you paesanos, Mistah Mancuso, an’ I’ma thinkin’, maybe Mistah Bellarosa knowsa whas ina Mistah Ferragamo’s head. Capisce?”
Mr. Mancuso didn’t seem amused.
I added, reverting to my normal accent, “Save Mr. Ferragamo’s soul, Mr. Mancuso. Remind him that revenge is a sin. If he backs off, that will let me off the hook as well. Tell him to find something better than a frame-up for Frank Bellarosa. Tell him to play fair.”
Mr. Mancuso did not respond.
I glanced at my watch, then said to Mr. Mancuso, “I’ll show you how to tack. Raise the mainsail first.”
And so we set sail for home, tacking through the wind, and fighting the tide, which was still running out. After about an hour with little headway, a weary Mr. Mancuso inquired, “Can’t you just start the engine?”
“I could, but sailing into the wind is very instructive. It’s a test of skill and patience. It is allegorical.”
“It’s a useless exercise,’’ declared the crew.
We rounded Plum Point, and the wind shifted in a more favorable direction, so we made better headway. Mr. Mancuso was kneeling on the foredeck, holding on to the rail. He seemed to enjoy the wind in the sails and the bow cutting through the water. I had advised him to put on a life jacket or tie on a lifeline, but he assured me he was an excellent swimmer. I called out to him, “Did you people screw me up with the IRS?”
He turned and looked at me, then called back, “No. But we know about that.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He added, “I didn’t do that. You have my word on that.”
I called over the sound of the wind and water, “Maybe not you, but someone in your office.”
“No. We don’t fool around with the IRS. It’s not legal, and we don’t trust them.”
“Then you couldn’t get me off the hook with them?”
“We could put in a good word for you. But I can’t promise you anything.”
But Frank Bellarosa and Mr. Melzer could unconditionally promise me things. How utterly depressing and demoralizing.
He called to me, “Would you l
ike me to put in a good word for you?”
“Sure. Tell them I go to church and I’m a good sailor.”
“Will do. You want to plant some bugs for me?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. But you have to resign as his attorney. You have to be ethical.”
Mr. Mancuso was into ethics. I called to him, “Lower the jib.”
“The what?”
“The sail flapping over your head.”
He lowered the jib, then the staysail and the mainsail, and I started the engine. When you have an inexperienced crew, it’s best to go into port under power and avoid a major embarrassment, like plowing into a moored boat while people are having drinks on the clubhouse veranda.
We came alongside the pier, and I cut the engine as Mr. Mancuso expertly lassoed a piling. We secured the Paumanok, and we both went below to collect our things.
As Mr. Mancuso put on his tie and gun, he said to me, “You’re not defending Frank Bellarosa solely on the basis of your belief that he is innocent of this murder, Mr. Sutter. Any attorney can do that. I think you are just playing with high explosives because you enjoy the danger. Like sailing in a storm at night. I know life can get boring, Mr. Sutter, and people with time and money on their hands often need something to get their blood moving. Some men gamble, some race cars or boats, some climb mountains, some have affairs, some do it all.”
“At the same time?”
“But, Mr. Sutter, there is a price to pay for the thrill. There are consequences. Danger is dangerous.”
“I know that, Mr. Mancuso. Where did you get your law degree, if I may ask?”
“Georgetown.”
“Excellent. Can I double your salary, Mr. Mancuso? We need a Catholic. You have your twenty years in with the FBI.”
He smiled. “I’m not counting years, Mr. Sutter. I want to finish this job. If it takes another twenty years to smash the Mafia in New York, then, God willing, I’ll still be at it.”
“Please keep my offer in mind. It is a serious offer.”
“I appreciate the thought. It is seductive. But what I want to say to you, Mr. Sutter, is that evil is seductive, and—”
“What did you say?”
“Evil is seductive. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . .”
“And virtue is boring. Evil seems to pay better than virtue, but virtue, Mr. Sutter, is its own reward. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. I am an honest man. I am doing nothing dishonest with Frank Bellarosa.”
Mr. Mancuso put his jacket on and gathered his shoes and socks. “But being involved with Frank Bellarosa is unethical, immoral, and unwise. Very unwise.’’ He stepped closer to me in the small galley where we were standing. “Listen to me, Mr. Sutter. Forget that I asked you to bug Bellarosa’s house, and that he may be innocent of this particular charge. The man is evil. I like you, Mr. Sutter, and I want to give you good advice. Tell Frank Bellarosa to go away and stay away from you and your wife.’’ He actually grabbed me by the arm and put his face near mine. “I am the voice of truth and reality. Listen to my voice. That man will destroy you and your family. And it will be your fault, Mr. Sutter, not his fault. For the love of God, tell him to leave you alone.”
He was absolutely right, of course, so I said, “Thank you. I like you, Mr. Mancuso. You restore my faith in humanity, but not in much else. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
Mr. Mancuso released my arm. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sutter. Have a pleasant day.’’ He went up the companionway and disappeared on deck.
After a minute, I followed and saw him on the pier slipping into his shoes. There were a few other people around now, and they were all watching this man in a suit who had come off my boat. At least a few people probably thought that Mr. Mancuso was a friend of Mr. Bellarosa’s—as was John Sutter—and that Sutter and this Mafia fellow had just dumped a few bodies at sea.
I called out to Mr. Mancuso, “Ferragamo and Bellarosa belong in the same cell. You and I should go sailing again.”
He waved to me as he disappeared behind a big, berthed Allied fifty-five footer that I would buy if I had three hundred thousand dollars.
I got some polish from the locker and shined up a brass cleat until it gleamed in the sunlight.
Twenty-four
The week after Mr. Mancuso and I went sailing, I was helping George Allard plant boxtrees where the central wing of the stables had once been. It was hard work, and I could have had it done professionally, but I like planting trees, and George has an obsession with saving old skinflint Stanhope a few dollars.
When men work together, despite class differences, they revert to a natural and instinctive sort of comradeship. Thus, I found I was enjoying my conversation with George, and George himself seemed a little looser, joking and even making an indiscreet remark about his employer. “Mr. Stanhope,’’ said George, “offered the missus and me ten thousand dollars to leave the gatehouse. Who’s he think is going to do all this work if I weren’t here?”
“Mr. Stanhope may have a buyer for the entire estate,’’ I said.
“He’s got a buyer? Who?”
“I’m not sure he does, George, but Mr. Stanhope wants to be able to offer an empty gatehouse if and when he does, or he wants to be able to sell the gatehouse separately.”
George nodded. “Well, I don’t want to be a problem, but . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve looked at August Stanhope’s will, and it’s clear that you and Mrs. Allard have lifetime rights of tenancy. Don’t let William Stanhope pressure you, and don’t take his offer.’’ I added, “You couldn’t rent comparable housing for less than twenty thousand a year around here.”
“Oh, I know that, Mr. Sutter. It wasn’t much of an offer, and even if he offers more, I wouldn’t leave. This is my home.”
“Good. We need you at the gate.”
It was a hot day, and the work was heavy for a man his age. But men are competitive in this regard, and George was going to show me that he could keep up.
At noon, I said to him, “That’s enough for now. I’ll meet you back here at about two.”
I walked home and had lunch alone as Susan was out, then wrote to my sister, Emily. When I returned to meet George, I found him lying on the ground between unplanted trees. I knelt beside him, but there were no signs of life. George Allard was dead. The gates to Stanhope Hall were unguarded.
• • •
The wake, held in a funeral home in Locust Valley, was well attended by other elderly estate workers whom the Allards had known over the years. Interestingly, a few older gentry put in appearances as well, ladies and gentlemen of the old vanished world, looking like ghosts themselves, come to pay their respects to one of their own.
The Stanhopes, of course, felt obligated to come in from Hilton Head. They hadn’t actually wished George dead, of course, but you knew that the subject had come up in their private conversations over the years, and that it had come up in a way that if you overheard them, you might think they were looking forward to it.
Susan’s brother, Peter, still trying to find the meaning of life—this month in Acapulco—could not make it in to contemplate the meaning of death.
I was sorry that Carolyn could not be reached in time in Cuba, but Edward flew up from Cocoa Beach.
Many of my family in and around Locust Valley and Lattingtown stopped by the funeral home as they all knew and liked the Allards. My parents, according to Aunt Cornelia, had gone to Europe so I’ll never know if they would have driven in for the funeral, and I really don’t care, as all gestures on their part are meaningless, I’ve decided.
There was no reason for Emily to come in from Texas, as she didn’t know the Allards that well, but she sent me a check to give to Ethel. It is customary when an old servant dies to take up a collection for the widow, this being a holdover, I suppose, from the days before servants had life insurance or Social Security. A good number of people pa
ssed checks or cash to me to give to Ethel. William Stanhope knew this, of course, but didn’t come up with any cash of his own. His reasoning, I’m sure, was that he was still obligated to pay Ethel her monthly stipend, as per Augustus’s will, and that Ethel was still in the gatehouse, and now George was about to occupy a piece of the Stanhope family plot; though in point of fact, there is more Stanhope family plot left than there are Stanhopes left to occupy it. So he wasn’t giving away anything valuable, as usual.
There was no reason for the Bellarosas to come to the funeral home, of course, but Italians, as I’ve discovered over the years, rarely pass up a funeral. So Frank and Anna stopped in for ten minutes one afternoon, and their presence caused a small stir of excitement, as if they were celebrities. The Bellarosas knelt at the coffin and crossed themselves, then checked out the flower arrangement they’d sent—which incidentally took two men to carry in—then left. They looked as if they did this often.
The Remsens stopped by the funeral home late Friday afternoon—after the closing bell and before happy hour at The Creek—but they pointedly avoided me, though they chatted with Susan for a minute.
One would think that, in the presence of death, people would be compelled into a larger appreciation of life and a sharper perspective of its meaning. One would think that. But to be honest, whatever petty grievances I, myself, had outside the funeral parlor were the same ones I carried inside. Why should Lester Remsen or William Stanhope or anyone be any different?
People like the DePauws, Potters, Vandermeers, and so forth, who might have stopped by for a moment as our friends and neighbors out of a sense of noblesse oblige, sent flowers instead. I didn’t want to read anything into this, but I could have. I was sure they would make it to my funeral. Jim and Sally Roosevelt did come, and Jim was very good with Ethel, sitting for an hour with her and holding her hand. Sally looks good in black.
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