The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “Were you?”

  Mrs. Bellarosa returned with Filomena, who was carrying a platter of chocolates. I sat down, trying not to get a whiff of the chocolates or of anything on the table. I asked Mrs. Bellarosa for some club soda, and she said something to Filomena, who left and returned with a bottle of something called Pellegrino and a glass. I had a glass of the mineral water, belched discreetly, and felt better.

  As the conversation continued without my participation, I regarded Anna Bellarosa. She was deferential toward her husband, which was, of course, what her prenuptial agreement called for. But now and then she showed some Italian fire, and the don backed off. From what I gathered during the conversation, and the dynamics I observed between them, Anna Bellarosa, as the wife of don Bellarosa, had the status of a queen and the rights of a slave. And as the mother of his children, she was the madonna, revered like Mary for the fruit of her womb. Anna Bellarosa had borne three sons, suckled them, saw to their religious education, then let go of them when the father was ready to take charge of their lives, and perhaps in the case of Tony, of the boy’s death. How very different this family was from my own.

  I noticed, too, that Anna Bellarosa, despite her good humor and easy laugh, had sad, faraway eyes, as if, I thought, decades of worry had dimmed the sparkle that must once have accompanied the laugh.

  Bellarosa stood abruptly, and I thought the evening was over, but he said, “Anna, show Susan around the house. She wants to see the place. John, come with me.”

  The four of us made our way into the dining room, and Bellarosa informed his wife, “This is the dining room. Where we were is the morning room. For breakfast. I want you to ask Susan what all these rooms are. She knows this place. You give each other a tour. Okay?”

  We all went into the palm court, and Frank took my arm and led me to the staircase. He said to his wife, “We’ll meet you later in the living room. Leave the greenhouse for me to show.’’ He corrected himself, “The conservatory. Right?”

  I caught Susan’s eye, and she smiled at me, as if to say, “See, you’re having a good time.’’ I know that look. What I couldn’t understand was why Susan seemed to be having such a good time. The nine-forty-five headache had not materialized, and being a macho man, I didn’t want to complain about my nonexistent hemorrhoids, or admit honestly that I was tired and my Anglo-Saxon stomach was churning with Irish pub food and Italian dessert. So I let my buddy, Frank, steer me up the stairs.

  We both navigated the winding steps without difficulty, and I saw that Bellarosa held his alcohol as well as I did. We got to the second level and walked around the mezzanine that ran in a horseshoe shape above three sides of the palm court. Every twenty feet or so we passed a heavy oak door, and finally Bellarosa stopped at one of them and opened it. “In here.”

  “What’s in here?”

  “The library.”

  “Are we going to read?”

  “No, we’re going to have a cigar.’’ He motioned me inside.

  Against my better judgment, I stepped through the door into the dimly lit room.

  Sixteen

  Frank Bellarosa pointed to a black leather armchair. “Sit.’’ I sat. I removed my reading glasses and put them in my breast pocket. Bellarosa took the chair opposite me. I hadn’t thought that he was carrying a gun, and in fact saw no reason why he should in his own house. Nor did I see any place he could be packing it under his close-fitting shirt and pants. But when he crossed his legs, I saw the bulge of an ankle holster under his right cuff. He noticed that I noticed and said, “I’m licensed.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You licensed to carry?”

  “No. To drive. But I don’t drive in my house.”

  He smiled.

  It’s very difficult to get a pistol license in New York State, and I wondered how Frank the Bishop Bellarosa had managed it. I asked him, “New York?”

  “Yeah. I got a little hunting place in an upstate county. They don’t ask a lot of questions up there. I can carry anyplace in the state, but not in the city. You need a special license in the city, and they won’t give me one. But that’s where I need a gun. Right? The fucking crazies carry. They got a license? No. But I can’t take the chance of a gun rap. So I walk around the city clean, so any two-bit junkie can take down Frank Bellarosa.”

  How unfair. I said, “How about your bodyguards?”

  “Oh, sure. But it’s not the same as having your own piece. Sometimes the bodyguards take a dive on you. And sometimes they got a new boss the night before, and you don’t know about it. Capisce?”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t realize all the stress in your business.”

  “Hey. You don’t want to know.”

  “That’s right.”

  Between us was a low table on which was a box of real Havana cigars. Bellarosa opened the box and held it out toward me.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Come on. Have a cigar.”

  I took a cigar. In truth, all Wasp lawyers know how to have a cigar, because it’s part of certain rituals. I took the cigar out of its metal tube and punctured the end with a silver pick that Bellarosa handed me. Bellarosa lit me up with a gold table lighter, then lit himself up. We puffed billows of smoke into the room. I asked, “Aren’t these illegal?”

  “Maybe. We’d trade with the devil in hell if we needed fire. But cigars we don’t need, so fuck Cuba. Right? Horseshit.”

  So much for world events. Now, the local news. “This is your office?”

  “Yeah. When I first saw it, it was all painted pink and white. Even the wood floor was painted. The real estate lady liked it. She said decorators did it for some kind of show.”

  “A designer showcase,’’ I informed him.

  “Yeah. Every fucking room looked like some fairies got loose with paintbrushes.”

  I looked around. This was the library that Susan had once told me about, the one that had existed in an English manor house and had been purchased by the Dillworths in the 1920s. The shelves were all dark oak, filled with books, though I was certain they were not from the original library. There was a fireplace on one wall, and on the opposite wall were double doors that led out to the balcony from which I’d seen the light when I was riding here in April. In the center of the large room was an oak desk with a green leather top. Behind the desk in a large alcove, sort of a secretary’s station, I could make out a word processor, copy machine, telex, and fax. The Mafia had gone high tech.

  Bellarosa said, “It cost me five large to get the paint stripped off this room. Then another five for the books. Books go for ten bucks a foot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s five hundred feet of bookshelf. Books are ten bucks a foot. So that’s five large . . . five thousand.’’ He added, “But I had a few books of my own.”

  I guess you can talk money here. I observed, “That saved you a few bucks.”

  “Yeah. I had my school books.”

  “Machiavelli.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. And Dante. Saint Augustine. You ever read that guy?”

  “Yes. Have you read Saint Jerome?”

  “Sure. His collected letters. I told you, those Christian Brothers made me learn.’’ He jumped out of his chair, went to a shelf, located a book, and opened it. “Here’s Saint Jerome. I like this. Listen.’’ He quoted, “‘My country is prey to barbarism, and in it men’s only God is their belly, and they live only for the present.’” He shut the book. “So what’s new? Right? People don’t change. If this guy wasn’t a priest, he would’ve said, ‘Their belly and their cock.’ Men follow their cocks around and that’s how they ruin their lives. You gotta think with your head, not your cock. You got to think of the future before you stick it someplace it don’t belong.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  He laughed. “Yeah.’’ He looked at his books. “Sometimes I sit here at night with one of these old school books. Sometimes I think I should’ve been a priest. Except for . . . you know .
. . my cock.’’ He added, “Women. Jesus Christ, they drive me nuts.”

  I nodded in sympathy. “You aren’t a real bishop then?”

  He laughed again and put the book back. “No. My uncle used to call me his bishop because my head was all full of this stuff from La Salle. He used to say to his friends, ‘This is my nephew, the bishop.’ Then he’d make me recite something in Latin.”

  “You speak Latin?”

  “Nah. Just some stuff I learned by memory.’’ He went to a serving cart and took a decanter and two brandy snifters from it and put them on the coffee table. He sat again and poured a dark fluid into the glasses. “Grappa. You ever have this?”

  “No.”

  “It’s like brandy, but worse.’’ He raised his glass to me.

  I picked up my glass, we clinked, and I poured it down. I should have listened to Bellarosa’s veiled warning about grappa. I can drink anything, but this was something else. I felt my throat burn, then my stomach heaved, and I thought I was about to blow the coffee hour all over the cigars. Through watery eyes I saw Bellarosa watching me over the rim of his glass. I cleared my throat. “Mamma mia. . . .”

  “Yeah. Sip it.’’ He finished his grappa and poured himself another, then held the bottle toward me.

  “No, thanks.’’ I tried to breathe, but the cigar smoke was thick. I put my cigar out, stood, and went out onto the balcony.

  Bellarosa followed, with his cigar and his glass. He said, “Nice view.”

  I nodded as I breathed the clear night air. My stomach settled down.

  He pointed off in the distance with his cigar. “What’s that place? You can’t see it at night. It’s like a golf course.”

  “Yes. Exactly like a golf course. That’s The Creek.”

  “Greek?”

  “Creek. A country club.”

  “Yeah? They play golf there?”

  “Yes. On the golf course.”

  “You play golf?”

  “A bit.”

  “I can’t see that game. How’s it fun?”

  I thought a moment, then replied, “Who said it was?’’ I added, “They have skeet shooting, too. Do you shoot?”

  He laughed.

  I thought it was time to let Frank Bellarosa know I was a real man. I said, “I’m not bad with a shotgun.”

  “Yeah? I fired a shotgun once.”

  “Skeet or birds?’’ I inquired.

  He stayed silent a moment, then replied, “Birds. Ducks.’’ He added, “I don’t like shotguns.”

  “How about rifles?’’ I asked.

  “Yeah. I belong to a club in the city. The Italian Rifle Club. It’s a social club. You probably heard of it.”

  Indeed I had. An interesting establishment in Little Italy, some of whose members had never fired a sporting rifle in their lives, but who found the rifle range in the basement convenient for pistol practice. I asked, “What type of rifle do you own?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I tried to recall how the Colombian drug king was murdered. Pistol, I think. Yes, five bullets in the head from close range.

  “You feel better?’’ he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.’’ Bellarosa sipped his grappa, smoked his contraband cigar, and surveyed his kingdom. He pointed again with the cigar. “I found a fountain over there and a statue of Neptune. That’s where that guy scared the hell out of Anna. You ever seen that?”

  “Yes. I’ve ridden all over this land.”

  “That’s right. Anyway, I fixed that whole place up. The pool, the fountain, the statue. I put a statue of the Virgin there, too, and had the whole thing blessed by a priest friend of mine. You gotta see it.”

  “The priest blessed the statue of Neptune?”

  “Sure. Why not? Anyway, there was these Roman ruins there, too. Broken columns and all. The landscape guy said it was built like that. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did they build a ruin?”

  “That was popular once.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe to remind themselves that nothing is forever.”

  “Like, sic transit gloria mundi.”

  I looked at him. “Yes. That’s it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and drew on his cigar.

  I gazed out over Alhambra’s acres. A half moon was high in a brilliantly clear sky, and a soft breeze blew in from the Sound, bringing with it the smell of the sea, as well as the perfume of May flowers. What a night.

  Bellarosa, too, seemed to appreciate the moment. “Brooklyn. Fuck Brooklyn. I go to Italy when I want to get away. I got a place in Italy, outside of Sorrento.”

  “I’ve been to Sorrento. Where is your place?”

  “I can’t say. You know? It’s a place where I might have to go someday. Only five people know where it is. Me, my wife, and my kids.”

  “That’s smart.”

  “Yeah. You got to think ahead. But for now, I like it here. Brooklyn’s finished.”

  So was the Gold Coast, but that wasn’t so apparent to Frank Bellarosa, who didn’t comprehend that he was part of the problem.

  He added, “We had a nice house in Brooklyn. An old brownstone. Five stories. Beautiful. But it was attached, and the yard was too small to have a big garden. I always wanted land. My grandparents were peasants. It’s their old farm that I bought from the people who owned it. But I let the people farm the land for free. I keep the farmhouse. It’s white stucco like this, with a red roof. But smaller.”

  We both stayed silent a moment, then he said, “You got a whole temple over there. Dominic said you showed him the temple. You got Venus over there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You people pagans over there?’’ He laughed.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Yeah. I’d like to see that temple.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’d like to see the inside of the big mansion.”

  “Do you want to buy it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Half a million.”

  “I know that.’’ He added, “You could have said more.”

  “No, I couldn’t, because the price is half a million. With ten acres.”

  “Yeah? How about the whole place?”

  “About twenty million for the land.”

  “Madonn’! You got oil on that place?”

  “No, we got dirt. And there’s not much of that left around here. Why would you want another estate?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe build houses on the land. Can I make money if I build houses?”

  “Probably. You should be able to make a profit of five or six million.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Well, you have to get permission to subdivide the property.”

  “Yeah? From who?”

  “Zoning people. But the neighbors and the environmentalists will hold you up in court.”

  He thought awhile, and I knew he was trying to figure out who had to be paid off, who had to be offered his best deal, and who had to be actually threatened. I said, “My wife’s parents own the estate. Do you know that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That doesn’t include my house, and there is a stipulation in any contract that my gatekeeper and his wife live in the gatehouse rent free until they die. But the estate does come with the statue of Venus and she has nice tits.”

  He laughed. “I heard.’’ He added, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Fine.’’ I thought about William Stanhope sitting down with a Mafia don at the house closing, and I decided I wouldn’t take a fee for the pleasure of handling that. Actually, I wouldn’t handle it. I still have to live around here. William and Charlotte visit friends here now and then, attend weddings and funerals, and all that. They have kept their Creek membership and on occasion stay in one of The Creek’s cottages that are used by retired gentry who return from time to time. But if Frank Bellarosa bought Stanhope Hall, William and Charlotte would never again set
foot on the Gold Coast. I liked this possibility, despite my reservations about being surrounded by mafiosi and FBI agents with cameras. I asked Bellarosa, “How did you happen to find Alhambra?”

  “I got lost.’’ He laughed. “I was on the expressway, going to a restaurant in Glen Cove. I had to meet a guy there. My stupid driver takes the wrong exit, and we’re all over the place trying to find Glen Cove. I notice all these big houses, and we go up the road here and I’m pissed. But then I see the gates of your place there, and I tell the jerk to slow down. Then I see this place, and the house reminds me of the big villas near the water in Sorrento. You know? I can see that the place don’t look lived in, so after my lunch thing, I go to a real estate office. I don’t know where this place is, but I explain what it looks like. You know? So it takes a week for this dumb real estate lady to get back to me, but she sends me a picture. ‘Is this it?’ Yeah, so I call her. How much? She tells me. It’s owned by the bank, and the tax people got to be taken care of, or something. The bank just wants to dump it. So I pay the bank, pay the taxes, and some people named Barrett get some money, and I’m out about ten mill. Madonna mia. But I like the poplar trees. Then I show it to my wife, and she don’t like it. Jesus Christ—”

  “You mean you bought this place without your wife seeing—?”

  “Yeah. So I say to her, ‘I like it, so you better learn to like it.’ She starts in, ‘It’s a wreck, Frank! It’s filthy, Frank!’ Fucking women can’t picture what things are going to look like. Right? So I get the greaseballs on the place and they bust their asses all winter and I take Anna out and she’s crying all the way out. But I figure, soon as she sees it, she’ll stop crying. But no, she still hates it. It’s too far from her crazy mother and her crazy sisters. ‘Where’s the stores, Frank? Where’s the people?’ Blah, blah, blah. Fuck the stores, fuck the people. Right?’’ He looked at me. “Right?”

  “Right. Fuck ’em.”

  “Right.’’ He finished his grappa and drew on his cigar, then flipped the ash over the balustrade. “Madonn’, they drive you nuts. She misses her church. She used to walk to church three, four times a week and talk to the priests. They were all Italian. Some of them were from the other side. The church here is very nice. I went a few times. Saint Mary’s. You know the place? But the priests are all Micks and one Polack, and she won’t talk to them. You believe that shit? A priest’s a priest, for Christ’s sake. Right?”