The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “What?”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “While I have you on the phone, Lester, Mrs. Lauderbach called and told me you suggested she sell half her American Express and buy United Bauxite. Why?”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why.’’ Whereupon he launched into a sales pitch.

  I interrupted and asked, “What is bauxite?”

  “It’s . . . it’s like . . . an important . . . I guess you’d say mineral. . . .”

  “It’s aluminum ore. Hardworking men dig it out of the ground so people can have beer cans.”

  “Who cares? I told you, it’s ten and a half today, a two-year low, and there’s talk of a takeover bid by American Biscuit. They’re a hot company. They make quality sporting goods.”

  “Who makes biscuits? U.S. Steel?”

  “USX. That’s U.S. Steel now. They make . . . steel.”

  “Leave the Lauderbach account alone, Lester, or I’ll pull it from you.”

  He mumbled something, then before I could hang up, he said, “Listen, John, let me return to the other thing for a moment. I want to talk to you about that. Just between us.”

  “Talk.”

  “First of all, I think you owe me an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you said to me at the club.”

  “I think you owe me an apology for having the audacity to try to involve me in a swindle.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you to apologize for telling me to go fuck myself.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Oh . . . okay . . . next thing. The Bellarosa thing. I have to tell you, John, twenty years ago you’d have been asked to resign for that little stunt. We’re all a little looser now, but by the same token, we’re all a little more concerned about all these new people moving in. We don’t want the club to get a reputation for being a place where these people can come, even as guests. We certainly do not want it known that a notorious Mafia boss is a regular at The Creek.”

  “Lester, I have no desire to cause you or other club members any distress. I am as big a snob as you are. However, if John Sutter wishes to sup with the devil at the club, it is no business of yours or anyone’s as long as no club rules are broken.”

  “John, damn it, I’m talking about common sense and common courtesy, and yes, common decency—”

  “And if you or anyone wishes to propose a house rule regarding alleged underworld figures, or the devil, I will probably vote for it. The days of gentlemen’s agreements and secret protocols are over, my friend, because there are no gentlemen left, and secret protocols are illegal. If we are to survive, we had better adapt, or we had better get tough and get a plan of action. We cannot stand around any longer complaining because it’s hard to dance on the deck of a sinking ship. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me put it this way. My prediction is that by the end of this century, Frank Bellarosa will be on the club board, or perhaps there won’t be a Creek Country Club. And when it’s a town park or a shopping mall, everyone can go there, and we can complain about tight parking and rowdy kids.”

  “You may be right,’’ said Lester unexpectedly. “But until then, John, we would appreciate it if you didn’t bring Mr. Bellarosa in as a guest.”

  “I will think about that.”

  “Please do,’’ Lester said. “My best regards to Susan.”

  “And my regards to Judy. And Lester . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  * * *

  I had decided to avoid The Creek for a while, partly because of my conversation with Lester, but mostly because I prefer to spend July at The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club.

  So on a Friday evening, the day after Edward came home, and two days after Carolyn came home, Susan and I took the children to the yacht club for an early dinner, to be followed by a three-day sailing trip.

  We took my Bronco, piled high with beer, food, and fishing gear. It was just like the old days, sort of, except that Carolyn was driving, and Edward wasn’t bouncing all over the place with excitement. He looked instead like an adolescent who had things on his mind; probably the girl he left behind at school. And Carolyn, well, she was a woman now, and someone, not me, had taught her to drive a stick shift. Where do the years go?

  Anyway, we entered the grounds of The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The club, founded by William K. Vanderbilt, is located on Center Island, which is actually more of a peninsula, surrounded by Oyster Bay, Cold Spring Harbor, the Long Island Sound, and an aura of old money. A no-trespassing sign would be redundant.

  We approached the clubhouse by way of a gravel drive. The house is a three-story building of gray cedar shingle and white trim, with a side veranda and gabled roofs. The building dates back to the 1880s and was built in a unique architectural style, which, on the East Coast, is called the American Shingle style. This is a sort of hybrid, combining native cedar shingles with classical ornamentation, though the classical touches are not of marble, but of white-painted wood. The clubhouse in fact had mock wooden pilasters all around, their capitals vaguely Corinthian, hence, I suppose, the club’s second name. The Seawanhaka are an extinct tribe of Long Island Indians. Thus, the club’s name, while as odd and hybrid as its architecture, has as its unifying theme the evocation of extinct civilizations, which may be fitting.

  Anyway, it is a beautifully simple building, unpretentious, yet dignified, a combination of rough-hewn Americana with just a bit of frivolity, like an early settler in a homespun dress with imported ribbons in her hair.

  Carolyn parked the Bronco and we climbed out, making our way to the clubhouse.

  The dining room faces out onto Oyster Bay, and we took a table near the large, multi-paned window. I could see our boat, the thirty-six-foot Morgan, at the end of a distant pier. The boat is named Paumanok, after the old Indian name for Long Island.

  I ordered a bottle of local wine, the Banfi chardonnay, produced on a former Vanderbilt estate that nearly became a housing tract. Perhaps, I thought, we could save the Stanhope estate by planting an expensive crop, maybe figs and olives, but I’d need a lot of sunlamps. Anyway, I poured wine for all of us and we toasted being together.

  I believe that children should start drinking early. It gets them used to alcohol and removes the mystery and taboo. I mean, how cool can it be if your mother and father make you drink wine with dinner? It worked for me, and for Susan, too, because neither of us abused alcohol in our youth. Middle age is another matter.

  We talked about school, about Carolyn’s trip to Cape Cod and Edward’s reluctance to leave St. Paul’s, which indeed had something to do with a girl, specifically an older girl who was a sophomore at nearby Dartmouth College. I fear that many of Edward’s life decisions will be influenced by his libido. I suppose that’s normal. I’m the same way, and I’m normal.

  Anyway, we also talked about local happenings and about summer plans. Edward, on his third glass of wine, loosened up a bit more. Carolyn is always tightly wrapped, drunk or sober, and you don’t get much out of her until she’s ready to talk. Carolyn is also the perceptive one, like her mother, and she asked me, “Is everything here all right?”

  Rather than pretend that it was, or be evasive, I replied, “We’ve had some problems here. You both know about our new neighbors?”

  Edward sat up and took notice. “Yeah! Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. He threatening you? We’ll go knock him off.’’ He laughed.

  Susan replied, “Actually, it’s quite the opposite problem. He’s very nice and his wife is a darling.”

  I wasn’t sure about any of that, but I added, “He’s taken a liking to us, and we aren’t sure how to react to that. Nor do other people. So you may hear a few things about that while you’re here.”

  Edward didn’t respond directly because when he has his own agenda, he doesn’t want to be sidetracked. He said enthusiastica
lly, “What’s he like? Can I meet him? I want to say I met him. Okay?”

  Edward is an informal boy, despite all his private schooling and despite the fact that most of his family on both sides are pompous asses. He’s sort of a scrawny kid with reddish hair that always needs combing. Also, his shirttails always need tucking in, his school tie and blazer are usually spotted with something, and his Docksides look as if they were chewed on. Some of this is affected, of course: the homeless preppie look, which was the fashion even when I was up at St. Paul’s. But basically, Edward is an undirected though good-hearted boy with a devil-may-care attitude. I said to him, “If you want to meet your new neighbor, just knock on his door.”

  “What if his goons come after me?”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. She always thought her younger brother was a bit of a jerkoff, without actually saying so. All in all though, they get along well in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact they have been separated so much. I replied to the question about goons. “You can handle them, Skipper.”

  He smiled at his old nickname.

  Carolyn said to me and to her mother, “I wouldn’t let other people tell me whom to associate with.”

  Susan replied, “We certainly don’t. But some of our old friends are disappointed. Actually, there was an incident at The Creek a few weeks ago.’’ Susan related, in general terms, our evening with the Bellarosas. She concluded, “Your father got a call from someone about it, and I got two calls.”

  Carolyn mulled this over. She is, as I indicated, a serious young woman, self-assured, directed, and ambitious. She will do well in law school. She is attractive in a well-kempt sort of way, and I can picture her with glasses though she doesn’t wear them, dressed in a dark suit, high heels, and carrying a briefcase. A lady lawyer, as we old legal beagles say. She gave us her considered opinion. “You have a constitutional right to associate with whomever you please.”

  I replied, “We know that, Carolyn.’’ College kids sometimes think they are learning new things. For years I thought I was getting new information at Yale. I added, “And our friends have that right, too, and some of them are exercising that right by choosing not to associate with us.”

  “Yes,’’ Carolyn agreed, “within the right to free association is the implied right not to associate.”

  “And likewise, my club has the right to discriminate.”

  She hesitated there, because Carolyn is what we call a liberal. She asked, “Why don’t you both just leave here? This place is anachronistic and discriminatory.”

  “That’s why we like it,’’ I said, and got a frown. Carolyn reminds me in many respects of my mother, whom she admires for her social activism. Carolyn is a member of several campus organizations that I find suspect, but I won’t argue politics with anyone under forty. I asked her, “Where do you think we should go?”

  “Go to Galveston and live on the beach with Aunt Emily.”

  “Not a bad idea.’’ Carolyn also likes Emily because Emily broke the bonds of corporate wifedom and is now a beachcomber. Carolyn, though, would not do that. Her generation of iconoclasts are a bit less wild than mine, better dressed for sure, and won’t leave home without their credit cards. Still, I think she is sincere. I said, “Maybe we’ll go to Cuba with you and see about world peace.”

  “Why don’t we order?’’ asked Susan, who always suspects me of baiting her daughter.

  Carolyn said to me, “I don’t think Cuba is a good place, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I think by going there I can understand it better.”

  Edward said, “Who cares about Cuba, Cari? Come to Cocoa Beach and I’ll introduce you to my friends.’’ He grinned at her.

  She said icily, “I wouldn’t be caught dead with your twerpy friends.”

  “Yeah? How come when I brought Geoffrey home for Christmas, you hung around us all week?”

  “I did not.”

  “You did.”

  I looked at Susan, who looked at me and smiled. I said to Susan, “And how come you can’t remember to get your car serviced?”

  “And why can’t you learn to pick up your socks?”

  Carolyn and Edward got the message, the way they always did, smiled, and shut up.

  We chatted about George and Ethel Allard, about Yankee and Zanzibar and the relocation of the stables, and other changes in our lives since Christmas. We ordered dinner and another bottle of wine, though I won’t drink more than two glasses before I sail.

  As we ate, Carolyn brought up the subject of Frank Bellarosa again. She asked me, “Does he know what you do for a living, Dad? Has he asked for tax advice?”

  “On the contrary, I’ve asked him for tax advice. It’s a long story. But now he wants me to represent him if he is indicted for murder.”

  Again, it was Edward who failed to see any problem there. “Murder? Wow! No kidding? Did he kill somebody? Are you going to get him off?”

  “I don’t actually think he did kill the person that he may be charged with killing.”

  Carolyn asked me, “Why does he want you to defend him, Dad? You don’t do criminal work.”

  “I think he trusts me. I think he believes that I would make a good appearance on his behalf. I don’t think he would ask me to defend him if he were guilty. He thinks that if I believe in his innocence, then a jury would believe me.”

  Carolyn nodded. “He sounds like a smart man.”

  “So am I.”

  She smiled at me. “We all know that, Dad.”

  Edward grinned, too. “Take the case. Beat the rap. You’ll be famous. Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Susan said unexpectedly, “I never get involved with your father’s business, but if he does take this case, I’m behind him.”

  Susan rarely makes public statements about standing by her man, so I had to wonder about this one.

  Anyway, we had dinner, we all loosened up a bit more, and it did almost seem like old times, but this was the last time it would.

  In truth, whatever relationship I have with Carolyn and Edward is based on a time when I could tease them, scold them, and hold them. They are older now, and so am I and so is Susan, and we all have other problems, other cares. I drifted away from my own father at about the age Carolyn and Edward are now, and we never came together again. But I do remember his holding my hand that evening on the boat.

  I suppose this separation is a natural biological thing. And perhaps one day, Susan and I will have good adult relationships with our children. I always believed that animals in the wild who leave their nests someday find their parents again and recognize them, and perhaps even signal that recognition. Maybe they even say, “Thank you.”

  As Edward was shoveling pie into his mouth, he announced, “I want to go out to East Hampton with you guys in August. Maybe for a couple weeks till school starts.”

  I glanced at Susan, then informed Edward and Carolyn, “We may be selling the East Hampton house, and it may be gone before August.”

  Edward looked up from his pie as though he hadn’t heard me correctly. “Selling it? Selling the summer house? Why?”

  “Tax problems,’’ I explained.

  “Oh . . . I was sort of looking forward to going out there.”

  “Well, you sort of have to make other plans, Skipper.”

  “Oh.”

  Edward seemed vaguely concerned, the way children are when adults announce money problems. Carolyn, I noticed, was eyeing Susan and me as if she were trying to find the real meaning in this. For all her interest in the disadvantaged, she could barely fathom money problems. Perhaps she thought her parents were getting divorced.

  We finished dinner, and Carolyn and I walked down toward the pier where the Paumanok was berthed. Susan and Edward went to the parking field to bring the Bronco closer to the pier.

  I put my arm around Carolyn as we walked and she put her arm around me. She said, “We don’t talk much anymore, Dad.”

  “You’re not aroun
d much.”

  “We can talk on the phone.”

  “We can. We will.”

  After a few seconds she said, “There’s been a lot of things going on around here.”

  “Yes, but nothing to be concerned about.”

  After a few seconds, she asked, “Are things all right between you and Mom?”

  I saw that coming and replied without hesitation, “The relationship between a husband and wife is no one’s business, Cari, not even their children’s. Remember that when you marry.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. I have a direct interest in your happiness and well-being. I love you both.”

  Carolyn, being the good Stanhope and Sutter that she is, does not say things such as that easily. I replied, “And we love you and Skipper. But our happiness and well-being are not necessarily tied to our marriage.”

  “Then you are having problems?”

  “Yes, but not with each other. We already told you about the other thing. Subject closed.”

  We reached the pier and stood looking at each other. Carolyn said, “Mom is not herself. I can tell.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She added, “And neither are you.”

  “I’m myself tonight.’’ I kissed her on the cheek.

  The Bronco came around, and we all unloaded our provisions onto the dock. Susan parked the Bronco again while Carolyn passed things to Edward, who handed them to me on the boat. We did all this without my having to say anything because this was my crew, and we’d done this hundreds of times over the years.

  Susan hopped aboard and began putting things where they belonged in the galley, on the deck, and in the cabin. The kids jumped aboard and helped me as I went about the business of making ready to sail.

  With about an hour of sunlight left, we cast off and I used the engine to get us away from the piers and the moored boats, then I shut off the engine and we set sail. Edward hoisted the mainsail, Carolyn the staysail, and Susan set the spinnaker.

  There was a nice southerly blowing, and once we cleared Plum Point, it took us north toward the open waters of the Sound.