The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Anyway, though we seemed to be having a good time during dinner, we weren’t. For one thing, Frank was going out of his way to be cool to Susan, and going out of his way to praise me as the greatest lawyer in New York. Obviously the man was trying to demonstrate that there was absolutely nothing going on between him and my wife, and at the same time trying to jolly us back together. Bellarosa was a smart guy in a lot of ways, but this wasn’t one of them.

  Susan seemed uncomfortable with Bellarosa’s obvious bad acting. She also seemed generally nervous, as you might expect.

  There were times when the conversation was strained, as I suggested, and Frank just wasn’t his scintillating self as he realized that the evening wasn’t going as he’d planned. Anna, I think, noticed this, too, but I wondered if she was smart enough to know why. I had half a mind to announce to her, “Your husband is fucking my wife.’’ But if she didn’t believe that her husband was a Mafia boss, why would she believe that he was an adulterer? And if she did, what was she going to do about it?

  Anyway, Frank paid the check with cash, and Vinnie and Lenny were already out the door. Frank said, “You all stay here and finish your coffee. I’m gonna go see about the car.”

  Anna stared down at the table and nodded. She knew the drill. Susan looked antsy to get moving, but like Anna she listened to Big Frank. I, on the other hand, didn’t feel like sitting with the women while Mr. Macho went out and secured the beachhead. So stupid John stood and said, “I’ll go with you.”

  And I did. Bellarosa and I went to the door, and I saw Vinnie standing on the sidewalk, checking out the block. Our car pulled up, a black stretch Cadillac that Frank had ordered from his limousine company for the occasion. Lenny was at the wheel. Vinnie signaled to us, and we went through the door onto the sidewalk.

  It was a very pleasant evening with a touch of autumn in the air. There were people strolling on the street as there always are in Little Italy, but none of them looked suspicious. And as always, no one knew where Bellarosa would be that night except Frank himself and his wife. Not even Susan or I knew, though I had guessed, of course, that we were going to Giulio’s. Vinnie and Lenny may have guessed also, though really, we could have been going to dinner at any one of about three thousand restaurants in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Long Island. It was only after we had gotten to Giulio’s that Lenny and Vinnie knew for sure, and Vinnie was never out of our sight. Only Lenny was when he parked the car in a garage down the street. As I said, anyone inside of Giulio’s could have made the phone call, but I’m pretty sure it was Lenny the Cretin who did.

  There were two of them, both wearing black trench coats and gloves. Where they came from exactly, I’m not sure, but they were standing on the other side of the limousine, and I had the impression they had been crouched behind it on the driver’s side and had stood as Vinnie pulled on the rear passenger-side door handle, which caused the interior lights of the limo to go on. This may have been the signal, inadvertently given by Vinnie, for the two men to stand, because I seem to recall a connection between the two. Vinnie was still tugging on the door handle, which was apparently locked, and he banged on the window with his palm. “Hey, Lenny! Unlock the fucking door. Whaddaya, stupid?’’ It was at that moment that Vinnie looked up and saw the two men across the roof of the car, and I heard him say, “Oh, Mother of God . . .”

  I should tell you that at one point in the evening, when the two women went off to powder their noses (as Anna referred to urinating), I had said to Bellarosa, “Frank, this is not a good place to be at night.”

  “You don’t like the music?”

  “Knock it off. You know what I mean.”

  His reply had been, “Fuck it.”

  Well, I tried. I really did, because I couldn’t stand by and say nothing. But Bellarosa’s ego wouldn’t allow him to make many changes in his lifestyle, and there was also the matter of Mr. Peacock wanting to impress Mrs. Sutter. Get it?

  Well, back to the really bad stuff. I stared at these two guys and found myself looking down the muzzles of two double-barreled shotguns not ten feet away. Both men steadied their aim on the roof of the limo, though with shotguns at ten feet you don’t have to do a lot of aiming. This all happened very quickly, of course, though neither man seemed rushed or nervous, just sort of matter-of-fact.

  I said, “Frank . . . ,’’ and poked him.

  Vinnie, of course, had gone for his gun, but the first blast caught him full in the face from about two feet away and literally blew his head off, sending pieces of it at me and Bellarosa.

  Frank had turned toward the two assassins just as the first blast decapitated Vinnie. Bellarosa stepped back and held his hands out in a protective gesture, and he yelled out, “Hey, hey!”

  The second man fired both barrels at once, and Frank, who had been a foot or two away from my left shoulder, caught both barrels in his chest and was actually picked up off his feet and thrown backward, crashing through the front window of Giulio’s.

  The man who had fired the single barrel into Vinnie’s face looked at me, and I looked at the shotgun pointing at me. But I’m a civilian, and I had nothing to worry about. Right? Right? Then why was the gun pointing at me? I sort of knew that I’d see the flash of the barrel but would probably never hear the explosion. People who have had similar experiences have described it as “like waiting for an eternity.’’ That’s exactly correct. And I even saw my life flash before my eyes.

  Well, maybe the reason I’m able to tell you about this is that the guy smirked at me, and I wanted the last word so I flashed him the Italian salute. He smiled, swung the barrel of the shotgun away from me, and fired. I actually heard the buckshot fly past to my left, like buzzing bees, and I heard Bellarosa groan a few feet behind me. I looked and saw him sprawled on his back, half his body inside the restaurant and his legs dangling outside. His trousers were shredded, and I realized the last shot had peppered his legs. In fact, I saw blood running now, over his ankles and socks—he had lost his shoes at some point—and the blood was puddling on the sidewalk.

  I heard a noise like another shot from the street and turned back to see that the two gunmen had gotten into the limo and the sound I’d heard was the door slamming shut. The long black car pulled away at a normal speed. I noticed now that the two shotguns were lying in the street. My eyes moved downward, and I looked at Vinnie’s body on the sidewalk, blood running out of his headless neck a few feet from my shoes. I stepped back.

  No one on the street or sidewalk around me was screaming or running; they were all just standing very still. Of course, this sort of thing doesn’t happen every night on Mott Street, but this was a savvy bunch, and no one around me was going to say later that they thought a car backfired or kids were shooting fireworks. No, everyone knew exactly what had happened, though no one saw a thing, naturally.

  Inside the restaurant, however, there was a lot of screaming going on, and I could picture the scene in there with glass all over the place and Bellarosa’s body sprawled across the window table, blood running onto the white tile floor.

  Well, there was nothing to be done out on the street, so I turned and went inside the restaurant. I should point out that from the moment I saw the two gunmen to the time I walked back into the restaurant was probably less than two minutes. Susan and Anna were still at the corner table, though like everyone else, they were standing, and Anna looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. Susan looked at me, too, then her eyes sort of focused over my shoulder as if she were looking for Bellarosa. I realized that neither of them had understood that it was Frank Bellarosa who had reentered the restaurant through the window. I turned toward the window and saw why; there was a small crowd around, of course, but also, when he’d sailed through the window, he had taken the curtain rod and the red café curtain with him, and the curtain was lying partially over his face and body. His arms were outstretched and his head tilted back over the edge of the table on which he was half lying. Shards of plate glass lay eve
rywhere, on the table, on the floor, and on Frank Bellarosa.

  The pandemonium in the restaurant was dying down except that I could now hear Anna’s voice shrieking, “No! No! Frank! It’s Frank! My God, my God!’’ and so forth.

  As I moved toward Bellarosa’s body, I glanced to my left and saw Susan standing a few feet away now, looking at Bellarosa’s upside-down face. Her face was pale, but she seemed composed. Susan turned away from him, looked at me, and our eyes met. I knew I had blood or gore or some wet stuff on my clothes and even on my face, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t my blood, but the remains of Vinnie’s head. Susan, however, couldn’t know that, yet she made no move toward me to see if I was all right.

  Anna, on the other hand, broke away from some waiters and rushed toward her husband. She dropped to her knees on the glass and the blood-covered floor and took her husband’s head in her hands, shrieking at the top of her lungs, then sobbing as she caressed his bloody face.

  I was sort of out of it at this point, and I don’t pretend that I noticed everything I’m describing at the exact time it happened, or that my impressions are as precise as they should have been. To give Susan the benefit of the doubt, for instance, she was probably in shock and that would explain her catatonic state.

  Anyway, I got a grip on myself and knelt down in a tremendous pool of blood beside Anna, and I was about to comfort her and get her out of there. But then I noticed that the café curtain had slipped from Frank’s face and that his eyes were open; not open dead, but open open. In fact, his eyes were watering and squinting in pain. I saw, too, that his chest was starting to heave. I ripped the red café curtain away from him and saw that though his tie, jacket, and shirt were full of holes, there was no big, gaping wound where the double-barreled shotgun blast should have punched out his heart and lungs. I ripped his shirt open and saw, of course, a bulletproof vest with dozens of copper shots lying on the silvery-gray fabric.

  I looked at Bellarosa’s face and saw that his lips were moving, but more important, I saw the source of all that blood on the floor: a pellet or glass had penetrated the side of his throat, and blood was gushing from the wound under the collar and running onto the floor. The man was bleeding to death.

  Well, that was too bad, wasn’t it? Talk about a quick and simple solution to a complex problem. On the other hand, I hadn’t been paid anything he owed me yet, but I could write that off as a life experience. Frank would have wanted it that way.

  Meanwhile, all these customers and waiters were standing around, and I guess there wasn’t a doctor in the house, and no one understood that Bellarosa needed first aid. Anna was still weeping, still clutching her husband’s head.

  Frank opened his eyes, and we looked at each other, and I think he smiled, but maybe not. I was certain his ribs were broken from the impact of the blasts, and I knew that if anyone moved him, his ribs would puncture his lungs. But so far, no blood was coming out of his mouth and his breathing was steady, though shallow. So what to do? You a Boy Scout or something? Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Eagle Scout, actually.

  So I opened his collar and saw that the wound was probably in a carotid artery by the way it was gushing, and I felt around for the pulse below the wound and found it. I pressed my fingers on the pulse and the bleeding subsided. I then cradled the back of his neck in the crook of my arm to raise his head level with his heart so his brain could get blood, and I took a table napkin and pressed that against the wound itself. I didn’t know if that was going to do the trick, but Mr. Jenkins, my Troop Leader, would have been proud of my effort.

  I looked around and said to the crowd in general, “Please move back. Someone take his wife away. Thank you.”

  So there I knelt, covered with Vinnie’s brains and skull as I saw now in the better light of the restaurant, and smeared with Frank Bellarosa’s blood, and my fingers on the don’s neck where I’d wanted them for some time, though for different reasons. All things considered, I wasn’t having one of my better evenings out.

  I managed to get a look at my watch and saw it was a few minutes before midnight. I looked at Bellarosa’s face and noticed that his skin was very white, which made his stubble look dark. But his breathing was still regular, and I could feel a good pulse. I also felt the puttanesca sauce rising in my stomach and up my esophagus, but I got it down again.

  I glanced back at his face and he was looking at me, although his eyes were unfocused. I said, “Hang in there, Frank. You’re doing fine. You’ll be okay. Just relax,’’ and so forth. That’s what you’re supposed to do so they don’t go into shock. Meanwhile, no one was giving me much encouragement, and my mouth was dry and my stomach was turning and my head felt light. Hang in there, Sutter.

  I heard a police siren and I looked out through the broken window and saw that a crowd had gathered, and apparently seeing Vinnie’s headless corpse on the sidewalk, they had formed a wide semicircle around the restaurant. The siren was right outside now, and I also heard an ambulance horn.

  I looked back into the restaurant and discovered Susan a few tables away, sitting in a chair and watching me, her legs crossed and her arms folded across her chest as though she was angry with me for something.

  There were police outside now, and when I glanced up, I saw one of them on the sidewalk and heard him say, “Jesus Christ! Where’s his head?”

  On my tie.

  Two cops burst through the door, guns drawn. They took stock of the situation and holstered their pistols. I said to one of them, “This man has a severed artery, so don’t tell me to move back. Get the EMS guys in here quick.”

  And they did.

  The two EMS guys listened to me for a few seconds, then took charge, getting Bellarosa onto a wheeled stretcher without puncturing his lungs with his ribs, while a cop kept up the pressure on his neck.

  I stepped aside and let the pros handle it. Somewhere along the line, the boys in blue discovered the identity of the injured citizen—probably from one of the waiters, not from me—so it was up to them to decide whether or not they wanted to keep don Bellarosa from bleeding to death on the way to St. Vincent’s. Not my problem anymore.

  Well, I was ready to go home now, having had enough excitement for one night, but my car was gone and my driver, Lenny the Rat, was probably on a flight to Naples by now.

  Also, the detectives had arrived and they had this idea that I should go down to the station house and tell them all about it. “Tomorrow,’’ I said. “I’m in shock.’’ But they were positively insistent, so I worked out a deal whereby they would drive Susan back to Long Island and Anna to St. Vincent’s Hospital, in exchange for my going with them. You don’t give nothing for nothing in this city, especially with cops. Right, Frank?

  While all this was going on, Lucio, the owner of the ill-fated establishment, had brought me a nice hot towel, and I got Vinnie off my hands and face, and Frank, too. I said to Lucio, “Sorry about this,’’ though it wasn’t my fault, of course. But no one else was around to apologize for the window and the mess, and the free dinners. And I liked Lucio and his wife. But he’d make up the lost revenue now that Giulio’s had joined other select dining and shooting establishments, with a Four Bullet rating.

  And that reminded me of the press. They were undoubtedly on the way, and I didn’t want to meet the press and be asked a lot of silly questions like, “Did you see the faces of the men who shot Frank Bellarosa?’’ and so forth. I might have hung around if I thought Jenny Alvarez was on the way, but it was past midnight on a Friday, and she was probably home with a good book by now. Anyway, I said to a detective type, “Get me out of here.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “One minute.’’ Still holding my towel, I went to Anna, who was standing, but was being supported by three cops. I said to her, “He’s going to be all right. I promise.”

  She looked at me as though she didn’t recognize me, and in fact, her eyes were swollen nearly shut and blinded by tears. But then she put her hand out and touched
my cheek. Her voice was very small. “John . . . oh, John . . .”

  “I’ll try to see you later at the hospital.”

  I moved away from Anna and walked over to where Susan was still sitting in the same chair. I said to her, “The police will take you home. I have to go with them to the station.”

  She nodded.

  I said, “He may make it.”

  Again she nodded.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  I had the impression again that she was annoyed at something. I mean, this was terribly inconvenient and all. I said, “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you save his life? Is that what you were doing there?”

  “I suppose that’s what I was trying to do. Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He owes me money.”

  She said, “Well, I wouldn’t have done it if I were you.” Interesting. I said, “I’ll see you at home.’’ I turned and walked toward the detective who was waiting for me. I heard Susan call out, “John.”

  I turned and she smiled at me, then puckered those pouty lips in a kiss. Madonn’, she was nuts. But how sane was I to still love her?

  I followed the detective out onto the sidewalk where dozens of cops had cleared and barricaded a block of Mott Street. Police cars with revolving lights cast red and blue beams on the buildings, and it was quite a different block than it had been only a short time ago. The detective said to me, “That your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice-looking lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  We walked toward an unmarked car and he asked me, “Aren’t you the lawyer? Sutter? Bellarosa’s lawyer?”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe that’s why they didn’t take you out, too. They don’t do lawyers.”