The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “No. You have pasta. They have lingue de passero here—the sparrow’s tongue.”

  “Can I get meatballs instead?”

  “It’s not real sparrow tongue. It’s the name of the pasta. You think we eat sparrow’s tongue?”

  “You eat worms, Frank, and sheep’s brains.”

  “You don’t eat the worms. You’ll have sparrow’s tongue. It comes from a little town called Faro San Martino in Abruzzo—the province of Brutus. That’s where my wife’s family is from. They’re very thickheaded there. But they have magnificent pasta.’’ He put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and kissed. “Magnifico. And we’re gonna have it with the puttanesca sauce. The whore’s sauce.”

  “Say again?”

  “Whore. Whore. I don’t know why they call it that. Maybe because it’s got anchovies in it.’’ He laughed. “You understand?”

  “I believe I do.”

  He raised a finger and a waiter appeared. Bellarosa made a sweeping motion with his hand, and the waiter snapped his fingers, and two busboys hurried over and cleared away round one.

  I settled back in my chair and had some water. I noticed that the Wall Street types had left, and so had some of the local tradesmen. But the old men stayed on, sipping wine or coffee. Also still present were the men who looked like Frank. Obviously, there were two kinds of lunches served here: American Italian and Italian Italian.

  Frank stood and excused himself but did not head for the back’ouse. Instead, he walked to a table where four men in dark suits sat. They greeted him cordially but with obvious reserve. I watched as a waiter ran over with a wineglass and one of the men poured Bellarosa some Chianti. They all touched glasses and I heard them mumble, “Salute.’’ They drank, then they all hunched forward over the table and said grace. Well, maybe not.

  Good Lord, I thought, these people really exist. I mean, right there, not twenty feet away, were five mafiosi drinking wine in a restaurant in Little Italy. I was sorry I hadn’t brought my video camera. Look, kids, here’s Daddy having lunch with a Mafia don. Now the don is walking over to talk to his mobster friends. See? Okay, the camera’s swinging around to those two men near the door. See them? They’re bodyguards. See the door? Close-up of the door. Okay, back to the table with the Mafia men.

  I watched them, sans video camera. They all talked with their hands. One of them made a motion as if he were pushing something down into the table, another one touched his forefinger to his right eye, Bellarosa tapped the tips of his fingers on the table, and another guy flicked his thumb under his chin. One thing they didn’t do with their hands, however, was to point at or touch one another.

  I noticed, too, that their expressions were for the most part stoic, sort of that Mafia poker face that Frank put on when he walked in here. But now and then their eyes or their mouths would convey something without revealing anything.

  I had no idea what was being discussed, of course, but I assumed that Bellarosa was telling them about his morning. Maybe they knew about the arrest by now, if it was on the radio or if they had another source of information. In any event, they would be interested in the outcome of his court appearance. The fact that he was in Giulio’s was a point in his favor regarding any rumors floating around town that he was making deals with Alphonse Ferragamo.

  The other order of business would be the Juan Carranza problem. By now, I could actually imagine a conversation among these people. Frank was saying something like, “We gotta stick together on this Carranza thing. Okay? We don’t want a bunch of spics making us do things we don’t wanna do. Right? And we don’t want the fucking Feds to start something between us. You know? I don’t wanna see no Italian blood spilled over a bunch of spics. Agreed? We don’t want to hurt business, so if we gotta go to the mattresses with these spics, we hit them hard and fast. Understand? We don’t make no separate deals with spics, chinks, melanzane, Feds, DAs, or nobody. Capisce?”

  How’s that? The scary thing is that four months ago, if I’d heard that conversation, I wouldn’t have understood half of it. Now I could make it up. Madonn’. What was happening to me? I didn’t know, but it was interesting.

  I regarded Lenny and Vinnie at their nice table for two in the corner. They hadn’t had any alcohol as far as I could see, but they were puffing up a smoke screen and drinking cup after cup of coffee. The Italians seem to have the capacity to sit for hours at a table, talking and consuming things. Lenny and Vinnie seemed content doing nothing except sitting and watching the door. But I guess watching the door was about as important a job as there was in Giulio’s at the moment. Both of them, I noticed, were also watching the remaining clientele, especially the four men with Frank. But the lingerers in the restaurant all seemed to be known by the waiters and maître d’, and I thought it was unlikely that one of them would suddenly stand up and start blasting away. No, it was the door that had to be watched. So, to help Vinnie and Lenny, I watched the door, too.

  After about fifteen minutes, Frank returned to our table. “I’m sorry, Counselor. I had some business there.”

  “No problem.”

  The pasta came and Frank dug right in. “Whaddaya think? Smell like a whore’s pussy? Yes? No?”

  “No comment.”

  I picked at the pasta, which I guess did resemble little sparrow tongues. Actually, it was quite good, including the fishy sauce, but I was stuffed.

  Bellarosa tore off a piece of bread and actually stuck it in my dish. “Here, dunk. Don’t be shy.”

  I don’t even like it when Susan takes food off my plate. But I took the bread from him and ate it.

  I glanced at my watch. “Do you want to call your wife?”

  “Yeah. Later.”

  “Maybe we should let her know you’re out on bail.”

  “She’s okay.”

  “She was upset after you left.”

  “Yeah? I told her to stay upstairs. You see? They don’t fucking listen anymore.”

  “Nevertheless, a call—”

  “What made you think of my wife? The puttanesca sauce?’’ He laughed. “Is that what made you think of calling my wife?”

  I wasn’t going to touch that one. I played around with the pasta and sipped the wine.

  Bellarosa finished his pasta and spilled some of mine onto his plate, commenting, “You’re not eating. You don’t like it?”

  “I’m stuffed.’’ I glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty. I informed Bellarosa, “I told your wife I’d have you home this afternoon.”

  “Yeah? Why? I told you, we got to stay around here. I got more people to talk to. I want you to say something to the newspeople later. We got a nice big suite at the Plaza. We’ll hang around town for a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Frank, I have a business, appointments—”

  “What can I tell ya? The shit hit the fan, Counselor. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Actually, I had no appointments and nearly no business left to worry about. And for fifty large, I could stick around for a few days.

  Frank took the rest of my pasta. “Yeah, we’ll send home for some clothes. Your wife will pack some things for you.”

  “Will she?”

  “Sure. That’s what wives are for.”

  Not my wife, goombah.

  He waved his hands over the plates as if he wanted them to go away by themselves, but a waiter popped up out of the floor and whisked them away.

  Another waiter brought two plain salads. Frank said, “Clean your palate.’’ He sprinkled oil and vinegar over his greens and tomatoes, then did the same for me. “Eat,’’ he said.

  I poked at the salad.

  “Eat it. The vinegar helps you digest.”

  “What does the oil do?”

  “Helps you shit. Mangia.”

  The salad I could handle, but I said, “Don’t order any more food for me.”

  “You have to have the main course. What did you come here for?’’ Bellarosa called over
the waiter. They discussed the main course in Italian, then Bellarosa turned to me. “Whaddaya like? Veal? Chicken? Pork? Fish?”

  “Sheep’s head.”

  “Yeah?’’ He said something to the waiter and I heard the word capozella. They both laughed. He turned to me. “They got a special chicken dish here. Nice and light. Okay? We’ll share it.”

  “Fine.”

  Bellarosa ordered, then turned back to me. “This dumb wop walks into a pizzeria, you know, and says to the guy, ‘I want a whole pizza.’ And the guy says, ‘You want it cut in eight pieces or twelve?’ And the dumb wop says, ‘Twelve, I’m really hungry.’” Bellarosa laughed. “Twelve slices. I’m really hungry. Get it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me one.”

  “Okay. This Wasp walks into Brooks Brothers, you know, and he says to the guy, ‘How much is that three-piece pinstripe suit?’ And the guy says, ‘Six hundred dollars.’ And the Wasp says, ‘Fine, I’ll take it.’” I went back to my salad.

  Bellarosa let a few seconds pass, then said, “That’s it? That’s the joke? That’s not funny.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Wasps aren’t funny.”

  He processed that a moment, then said. “You’re funny.”

  “No one else thinks so.”

  He shrugged.

  We drank awhile, and the nice little chicken dish came, and it was enough to feed half the dining room in The Creek. Bellarosa spooned the stuff onto two plates. “This is called pollo scarpariello. Say it.”

  “Pollo . . . scarp . . .”

  “Scarpariello. Chicken, shoemaker style. Maybe a shoemaker invented it. Maybe they make it with old shoes.”

  I turned over a piece of meat with my fork. “What part of the chicken is that?”

  “That’s sausage. You make it with sausage, too. It’s sautéed in oil and garlic, with mushrooms.”

  “That does sound light.”

  “Eat it. Here, try this. This is escarole with more oil and garlic. The garlic gets that pussy smell outa your mouth. Here. You got to try everything.”

  I called the waiter over. “Bring me a bottle of that water with the bubbles in it and a glass of ice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He brought a green bottle that was labeled Pellegrino, and I made a mental note of it for the future. I poured and drank three glasses of the sparkling water while Frank ate the chicken and sausage.

  It was nearly three-thirty but the place was not completely empty. Frank’s four friends had left, but a few old men sat around with coffee and newspapers. Two old guys were actually snoozing. Vinnie and Lenny were still drinking coffee and smoking.

  The door opened, and I instinctively tensed. A man entered, about fifty years old, wearing a dark gray suit and sunglasses. Behind him was a younger man whose eyes darted around the tables. I poked Bellarosa’s arm and he followed my gaze to the door. I glanced at Vinnie and Lenny and saw they were on the case. The two men who had come in were aware of Bellarosa’s bodyguards and didn’t make any abrupt movements, but just stood there near the front door looking at Bellarosa and me. The waiters stood still, staring at their shoes. The few old men in the place gave the two intruders a glance, then went back to their coffee and newspapers.

  Frank stood and stepped away from the table, and the man with the sunglasses took them off and came toward Bellarosa. They met in the middle of the restaurant and embraced, but I could see it was more a demonstration of respect than affection.

  Frank and his buddy sat at an empty table. The man’s partner, or bodyguard or whatever, took a seat with Vinnie and Lenny at their suggestion. I turned my attention back to Bellarosa and his paesano. If you watched these people long enough, you could figure out the pecking order. Whereas Frank the Bishop Bellarosa seemed to have no peers this side of Augustus Caesar, this man who had just come in was close. The man had lit Bellarosa’s cigarette, but he did it in such a way as to suggest that he didn’t like doing it and might not do it again. Bellarosa, for his part, purposely blew smoke at the man. They were both smiling, but I wouldn’t want anyone to smile at me like that.

  The conversation lasted five minutes, then the man patted Bellarosa’s shoulder as if he were congratulating him on getting out of the slammer. They both stood, embraced again, and the man left with his friend.

  The waiters reappeared. I relaxed a bit, but I noticed that Lenny and Vinnie had their eyes glued to the door.

  Frank sat down across from me. “That was a guy who used to work for me.”

  “The guy whose bones you broke?”

  “No. Another guy.”

  “He looked familiar. Is his picture in the papers sometimes?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I could see that Frank Bellarosa was a bit distracted. Obviously, that man had said something that upset my client. But whatever it was, I would probably never know about it.

  It was apparent to me, however, that don Bellarosa was doing some politicking, some public relations on his own behalf, and that he had more personal appearances to make. I had the sense, too, that this was galling to him, but he was going to do it just the same. He might not compromise or make deals with the law or with blacks or Hispanics or with women. But he had to deal with his own kind, and he had to do it with just the right balance of force and respect.

  Bellarosa seemed to have come out of his pensive mood and he said to me, “Hey, you drink cappuccino, espresso, or American?”

  “American.”

  He signaled a waiter and gave an order. The coffee came and behind it was a man carrying a tray of pastry. Mamma mia, I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva anymore. But good old Frank, playing both host and waiter, insisted on describing each of the pastries before asking me to pick two for myself. There was no use declining, so I picked two, and he told me I didn’t want those two and picked two others for me.

  I nibbled at the pastry, which was good enough to find room for, and I also got my coffee down. We chatted with Patsy, with Lucio and his wife, and with a few of the waiters. Everyone seemed happy that the meal was coming to a bloodless conclusion. Patsy smiled at me. “You like everything?”

  “Very good.”

  “You come back for dinner. Okay?”

  “Sure will.”

  Lucio and his wife were not smooth like Patsy, but I tried to draw them out. “How long have you owned this place?”

  Lucio replied, “It was my father’s restaurant, and his father’s restaurant.”

  “Your grandfather was Giulio?”

  “Yes. He came from the other side and opened his restaurant, right here.’’ He pointed to the floor.

  “In what year?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe 1900.”

  I nodded. A real slick entrepreneur would have made the most of that: Giulio’s; family-owned on Mott Street since 1899. (The last century always sounds better.) But I had the impression that Lucio was concerned only with the day’s fare and his customers’ satisfaction a meal at a time. Maybe that’s why he was successful, like his father and his father’s father.

  The chef came out, complete with apron and chef ’s hat, which he removed prior to bowing to the don. Good Lord, you would have thought Bellarosa was a movie star or nobility. Actually, he was even more important than that; he was mafioso, and these people, mostly from Sicily and Naples, I suspected, had good ancestral memories.

  We chatted a minute longer. They all could not have been friendlier, but nevertheless I felt a bit out of place, though not uncomfortable. Lucio and company could tell, of course, that I was an important person, but not an important Italian person. I felt actually like an American tourist in Italy.

  Frank stood and I stood, and the chairs were pulled away for us. Everyone was grinning wider as they held their breaths. A minute more and they could all collapse on the floor.

  I realized that the only thing missing from this meal was the bill. But then Fran
k took a wad of cash from his pants pocket and began throwing fifties around the table. He hit the chef with a fifty, Patsy with a fifty, and three waiters with a fifty each. He even called over two young busboys and slipped them each a tenner. The man knew how to take care of people. We all bid each other buon giorno and ciao.

  Lenny was already gone, and Vinnie was outside checking the street. I saw Lenny pull the Cadillac up in front of the restaurant, and Vinnie opened the rear car door while we were still inside the restaurant. Vinnie motioned through the glass door, and it was only then that Bellarosa exited the restaurant. I was right behind him but not too close. He slid into the backseat and I got in beside him. Vinnie jumped into the front and Lenny pulled quickly away. And this guy wanted to take the wives here? Get serious, Frank.

  But maybe he was just taking normal precautions. I mean, maybe even when peace reigned in the regions of the underworld, Frank Bellarosa was just a careful man. Maybe I would take Susan here with the Bellarosas. Couldn’t hurt. Right?

  We traveled south on Mott Street, which is one-way like all of the narrow streets in the old part of Manhattan.

  Frank said to Lenny, “Plaza Hotel.”

  Lenny cut west on Canal and swung north on Mulberry, driving through the heart of Little Italy. Bellarosa stared out the window awhile, recharging his Italian psyche. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected that he did not walk these streets freely; that like a celebrity, he saw most of the world through tinted car-windows. Somehow I felt sorry for him.

  He turned to me and said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe you had enough of this shit.”

  Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I didn’t reply.

  He went on, “You did what I needed you to do. You got me sprung. You know? Jack Weinstein can take over from here. He knows how to deal with those scumbags in the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

  “It’s up to you, Frank.”

  “Yeah. This could get messy. You got a nice law practice, you got a nice family. You got friends. People are gonna bust your balls. You and your wife go take a nice vacation someplace.”