Gold Coast

CHAPTER 6

The following week passed without incident. I went to my law office in Locust Valley on Monday, then commuted by train to my Manhattan office on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday found me back in Locust Valley. I follow this schedule whenever I can as it gives me just enough of the city to make me a Wall Street lawyer, but not so much as to put me solidly into the commuting class. I am a partner in my father's firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. The firm is defined as small, old, Wasp, Wall Street, carriage trade, and so on. You get the idea. The Manhattan office is located in the prestigious J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and our clientele are mostly wealthy individuals, not firms. The office's decor, which has not changed much since the 1920s, is what I call Wasp squalor, reeking of rancid lemon polish, deteriorating leather, pipe tobacco, and respectability.

The Morgan Building, incidentally, was bombed by the anarchists in 1920, killing and injuring about four hundred people – I can still see the bomb scars on the stonework – and every year we get a bomb threat on the anniversary of the original bombing. It's a tradition. Also, after the Crash of '29, this building chalked up six jumpers, which I think is the record for an individual building. So perhaps along with prestigious, I should add historic and ill-omened. The Locust Valley office is less interesting. It's a nice Victorian house on Birch Hill Road, one of the village's main streets, and we've been there since 1921 without any excitement. Most of the Locust Valley clientele are older people whose legal problems seem to consist mostly of disinheriting nieces and nephews, and endowing shelters for homeless cats.

The work in the city – stocks, bonds, and taxes – is interesting but meaningless. The country work – wills, house closings, and general advice on life – is more meaningful but not interesting. It's the best of both worlds. Most of the older clientele are friends of my father and of Messrs Perkins and Reynolds. The first Mr Perkins on the letterhead, Frederic, was a friend of J. P. Morgan, and was one of the legendary Wall Street movers and shakers of the 1920s, until November 5, 1929, when he became a legendary Wall Street jumper. I suppose the margin calls got on his nerves. My father once said of this incident, "Thank God he didn't hurt anyone on the sidewalk, or we'd still be in litigation."

Anyway, the second Mr Perkins, Frederic's son, Eugene, is retired and has moved down to Nags Head, North Carolina. The Carolinas seem to have become a respectable retirement destination, as opposed to Florida, most of which is considered by people around here as unfit for human habitation. And the last senior partner, Julian Reynolds, is also retired, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the large corner office down the hall and watches the harbour. I have no idea what he's looking at or for. Actually, he occupies the same office from which Mr Frederic Perkins suddenly exited this firm, though I don't think that has any relevance to Julian's fascination with the window. My secretary, Louise, interrupts Mr Reynolds's vigil every day at five, and a limousine takes him uptown to his Sutton Place apartment, which offers an excellent view of the East River. I think the poor gentleman has old-timers' disease.

My father, Joseph Sutter, had the good sense to retire before anyone wanted him to. That was three years ago, and I remember the day with some emotion. He called me into his office, told me to sit in his chair, and left. I thought he had stepped out for a moment, but he never came back. My parents are still alive, but not so you'd notice. Southampton is on the eastern side of Long Island, only about sixty miles from Lattingtown and Locust Valley, but my parents have decided to make it further. There is no bad blood between us; their silence is just their way of showing me that they are sure I'm doing fine. I guess.

As you may have gathered or already known, many white Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the upper classes have the same sort of relationship with their one or two offspring as, say, a sockeye salmon has with its one or two million eggs. I probably have the same relationship with my parents as they had with theirs. My relationship with my own children, Carolyn, age nineteen, and Edward, seventeen, is somewhat warmer, as there seems to be a general warming trend in modern relationships of all sorts. But what we lack in warmth, we make up for in security, rules of behaviour, and tradition. There are times, however, when I miss my children and wouldn't even mind hearing from my parents. Actually, Susan and I have a summer house in East Hampton, a few miles from Southampton, and we see my parents each Friday night for dinner during July and August whether we're all hungry or not.

As for Susan's parents, I call Hilton Head once a month to deliver a situation report, but I've never been down there. Susan flies down once in a while, but rarely calls. The Stanhopes never come up unless they have to attend personally to some business. We do the best we can to keep contact at a minimum, and the fax machine has been a blessing in this regard.

Susan's brother, Peter, never married and is travelling around the world trying to find the meaning of life. From the postmarks on his infrequent letters -

Sorrento, Monte Carlo, Cannes, Grenoble, and so forth – I think he's trying the right places.

I have a sister, Emily, who followed her IBM husband on a corporate odyssey through seven unpleasant American cities over ten years. Last year, Emily, who is a very attractive woman, found the meaning of life on a beach in Galveston, Texas, in the form of a young stud, named Gary, and has filed for divorce. Anyway, on Friday afternoon, I left the Locust Valley office early and drove the few miles up to The Creek for a drink. This is a tradition, too, and a lot more pleasant one than some others.

I drove through the gates of the country club and followed the gravel lane, bordered by magnificent old American elms, toward the clubhouse. I didn't see Susan's Jag in the parking field. She sometimes comes up and has a drink on Fridays, then we have dinner at the club or go elsewhere. I pulled my Bronco into an empty slot and headed for the clubhouse.

One of the nice things about having old money, or having other people think you do, is that you can drive anything you want. In fact, the richest man I know, a Vanderbilt, drives a 1977 Chevy wagon. People around here take it as an eccentricity or a display of supreme confidence. This is not California, where your car accounts for fifty percent of your personality. Besides, it's not what you drive that's important; it's what kind of parking stickers you have on your bumper that matters. I have a Locust Valley parking sticker, and a Creek, Seawanhaka Corinthian, and Southampton Tennis Club sticker, and that says it all, sort of like the civilian equivalents of military medals, except you don't wear them on your clothes.

So I entered The Creek clubhouse, a large Georgian-style building. Being a former residence, there is nothing commercial looking about the place. It has instead an intimate yet elegant atmosphere, with a number of large and small rooms used for dining, card playing, and just hiding out. In the rear is the cocktail lounge, which looks out over part of the golf course and the old polo field, and in the distance one can see the Long Island Sound, where The Creek has beach cabanas. There is indoor tennis, platform tennis, possibly skeet shooting, and other diversions for mind and body. It is an oasis of earthly pleasure for about three hundred well-connected families. Someday it will be a housing subdivision and they will call it The Creek Estates. Anyway, I went into the lounge, which was filled mostly with men who were in that Friday mood that reminds me of grinning idiots at a locker room victory party.

There were the usual hellos and hi, Johns, a few backslaps, and assorted hale-fellow-well-met rituals. More interestingly, I caught a wink from Beryl Carlisle, whom I would dearly love to pop if I weren't so faithful. I looked around the room, assured once again that there were still so many of us left. An Englishman once said that he found it easier to be a member of a club than of the human race because the bylaws were shorter, and he knew all the members personally. That sounds about right.

I spotted Lester Remsen sitting at a table near the window with Randall Potter and Martin Vandermeer.

I thought the best thing to do regarding Lester, whom I hadn't heard from since Sunday, was to just go over and sit down, so I did. Lester greeted me a bit coolly, and I had the impression the other two had just gotten a negative evaluation report on me. The cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a gin martini, straight up.

Regarding bylaws, the rules of this club, like those of many others, prohibit the talking of business, the original purpose being to provide an atmosphere of forced relaxation. These days we like to pretend that this bylaw precludes members from having an unfair business advantage over people who are not allowed in the club. Americans take their economic rights very seriously, and so do the courts. But the business of America is business, so Randall and Martin went back to their business discussion, and I took the opportunity to address a question to Lester Remsen. "I have a client," I said, "a woman in her seventies, with fifty thousand shares of Chase National Bank stock. The stock was issued in 1928 and 1929 -" Lester leaned toward me. "You mean she has the actual certificates?" "Yes. She lugged them into my Locust Valley office in a valise. They were left to her by her husband, who died last month."

"My Lord," Lester exclaimed. "I've never seen Chase National certificates.

That's Chase Manhattan now, you know."

"No, I didn't know. That's what I wanted to speak to you about." Of course I did know, but I could see Lester's feathers getting smoother and shinier. Lester asked, "What did they look like?"

Some men get excited by Hustler; Lester apparently got excited by old stock certificates. Whatever turns you on, I say. I replied, "They were a light-green tint with ornate black letters and an engraving of a bank building." I described the certificates as best I could, and you would have thought by the way Lester's eyes brightened that I'd said they had big tits.

"Anyway," I continued, "here's the kicker. On the back of the certificates, there is the following legend: 'Attached share for share is an equal number of shares of Amerex Corp.'" I shrugged to show him I didn't know what that meant, and I really didn't.

Lester rose a few inches in his club chair. "Amerex is now American Express, a nothing company then. It says that?"

"Yes." Even I was a little excited by this news.

Lester said, "American Express is thirty-three and a half at today's close. That means…" I could see the mainframe computer between Lester's ears blinking, and he said, "That's one million, six hundred and seventy-five thousand. For American Express. Chase Manhattan was thirty-four and a quarter at the close…" Lester closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and his mouth opened with the news: "That's one million, seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred." Lester never says 'dollars'. No one around here ever says 'dollars'. I suppose if you worship money, then like an ancient Hebrew who may not pronounce the name of God, no one in this temple will ever pronounce the word dollars. I asked, "So these shares are good front and back?"

"I can't verify that without examining them, but it sounds as if they are. And, of course, the figures I gave you don't take into account all the stock splits since 1929. We could be talking about ten, maybe ten point five." This means ten or ten and a half million. That means dollars. This was indeed good news to my client who didn't need the money anyway. I said, "That will make the widow happy."

"Has she been collecting dividends on these stocks?"

"I don't know. But I'm handling her deceased husband's estate, so I'll know that as I wade through the paperwork."

Lester nodded thoughtfully and said, "If for some reason Chase or American Express lost touch with these people over the years, there could also be a small fortune in accrued dividends."

I nodded. "My client is vague. You know how some of these old dowagers are." "Indeed, I do," said Lester. "I'd be happy to send the information to my research department for verification. If you'll just send me photostats of the certificates, front and back, I'll let you know how many times each company's shares have split, what they're worth today, and let you know if Chase or American Express is looking for your client so they can pay her dividends." "Would you? That would be very helpful."

"The shares ought to be examined and authenticated, and they should really be turned in for new certificates. Or better yet, let a brokerage house hold the new certificates in an account. No need to have that kind of money lying around. I'm surprised they've survived over sixty years already without mishap." "That sounds like good advice. I'd like to open an account with you on behalf of my client."

"Of course. Why don't you bring me the actual certificates to my office on Monday? And bring your client along if you can. I'll need her to sign some papers, and I'll need the pertinent information from the estate establishing her ownership as beneficiary and all that."

"Better yet, why don't you come to my office after the close? Monday, four-thirty."

"Certainly. Where are the shares now?"

"In my vault," I replied, "and I don't want them there." Lester thought a moment, then smiled. "You know, John, as the attorney handling the estate, you could conceivably turn those shares into cash." "Now why would I want to do that?"

Lester forced a laugh. "Let me handle the transaction, and we'll split about ten million." He laughed again to show he was joking. Ha, ha, ha. I replied, "Even by today's Wall Street standards, that might be construed as unethical." I smiled to show I was sharing Lester's little joke, and Lester smiled back, but I could see he was thinking about what he'd do with ten million in his vault over the weekend. Lester wouldn't give it to the cats.

After a few more minutes of this, Randall and Martin joined our conversation, and the subject turned to golf, tennis, shooting, and sailing. In most of America that Friday night, in every pub and saloon, the sports under discussion were football, baseball, and basketball, but to the best of my knowledge no one here has yet had the courage to say. "Hey! How about those Mets?" Other taboo subjects include the usual – religion, politics, and sex, though it doesn't say this in the bylaws. And while we're on the subject of sex, Beryl Carlisle, who was sitting with her pompous ass of a husband, caught my eye and smiled. Lester and Randall saw it but did not say something like, "Hey, Johnny boy, that broad is hot for your tool," as you might expect men to say in a bar. On the contrary, they let the incident pass without even a knowing glance. Lester was going on about the damned skeet shooting again, but my mind was on Beryl Carlisle and the pros and cons of adultery.

"John?"

I looked at Randall Potter. "Huh?"

"I said, Lester tells me you actually met Frank Bellarosa." Apparently someone had changed the subject during my mental absence. I cleared my throat. "Yes… I did. Very briefly. At Hicks' Nursery." "Nice chap?"

I glanced at Lester, who refused to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he had a big mouth.

I replied to Randall Potter, "'Polite' might be a better word." Martin Vandermeer leaned toward me. Martin is a direct descendent of an original old Knickerbocker family and is the type of man who would like to remind us Anglo-Saxons that his ancestors greeted the first boatload of Englishmen in New Amsterdam Harbor with cannon fire. Martin asked, "Polite in what way, John?" "Well, perhaps "respectful" is a better word," I replied, searching my mental thesaurus and stretching my credibility.

Martin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner. I don't want to give the impression that I'm cowed by these people; in fact, they're often cowed by me. It's just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbour than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you've got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn't know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.

Randall asked me, with real interest, "Did he have any bodyguards with him?" "Actually, now that you mention it, he had a driver who put his purchases in the trunk. Black Cadillac," I added with a little smirk to show what I thought of black Cadillacs.

Martin wondered aloud, "Do these people go about armed?"

I think I had become the club expert on the Mafia, so I answered, "Not the dons.

Not usually. They don't want trouble with the police." Randall said, "But didn't Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?"

On the other hand, I didn't want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. "I don't know." But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.

Lester wanted to know, "What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks'?" "Maybe he works there on weekends," I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn't get away with it a second time.

Martin's wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife. Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, "Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional." This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it's worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think any apology is required.

Lester waved his hand in dismissal. "Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?"

This is the Wasp equivalent of "I fully accept your halfhearted apology." I replied to Lester, "Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven't seen it in years, and it's quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape."

We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbours. But, as I said, they've discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable. Lester proclaimed, "I don't want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard."

That's what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.

He asked, "Can't we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?" "Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement."

"All right. We'll keep an eye on that. What's the story with your place?" Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I've advertised it both ways."

Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone's dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today's crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that's as big as a medium-size hotel. Lester said, "It's such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn't it?" "Several. Town amp; Country noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change." The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan's, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope's will. Lester said, "What sort of people seem interested in the house?"

"The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house." That's what I'm trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That's about twenty-five million of today's dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back. Susan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures – except the stables and tennis courts – which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She was upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.

Lester inquired, "Did you hear from the county park people yet?" "Yes," I replied. "A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner's office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance." "Well," said Lester, "it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?"

"McKim, Mead, White," I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester's strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he's becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, "As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I'll have to research it."

"How about making something up?" Lester suggested half jokingly. "Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall." I ignored that and continued, "One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn't sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk."

"No, you wouldn't," Lester assured me.

"Bottom line, Lester, if the county did make an offer, it would only offer a price equal to the back taxes. That's their game."

Lester did not ask how much that was, because he had probably looked it up in the public record or saw it published in the Locust Valley Sentinel under the heading TAX DELINQUENCIES.

The back taxes on Stanhope Hall, including interest and penalties, is about four hundred thousand dollars, give or take. You can look it up. Well, you might be thinking, "If I owed four thousand dollars, let alone four hundred thousand dollars, in back taxes, they'd grab my house and kids." Probably. But the rich are different. They have better lawyers, like me.

However, I've nearly exhausted all the legal manoeuvres that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can't forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don't normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn't offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I'm making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.

Lester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, "I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you've done."

"I'm sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can't sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there's the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some such thing. Unfortunately, it's expensive to tear down and much too expensive for twenty new households to maintain it." "It certainly is a white elephant," Lester informed me. "But you are trying to preserve that land if not the house."

"Of course. But it's not my land. I'm in the same situation as you are, Lester, living in splendid isolation on a few acres of a dead estate. I'm master of only about five percent of what I survey."

Lester thought about that a moment, then said, "Well, maybe a white knight will come along to save the white elephant."

"Maybe." A white knight in this context is a non-profit group such as a private school, religious institution, or sometimes a health care facility. Estate houses and their grounds seem to lend themselves to this sort of use, and most of the neighbours can live with this arrangement because it keeps the land open and the population density low. I wouldn't mind a few nuns strolling around Stanhope's acres, or even a few nervous-breakdown cases, or, least desirable, private-school students.

Lester asked, "Did you ever contact that real estate firm in Glen Cove that puts corporations together with estate owners?"

"Yes, but there seems to be a glut of estates and a dearth of corporations that need them." I should point out that corporations have bought entire estates for their own use. The old Astor estate in Sands Point, for instance, is now an IBM country club, and one of the many Pratt estates in Glen Cove is a conference centre. Also, one of the Vanderbilt estates, an Elizabethan manor house with a hundred acres in Old Brookville, is now the corporate headquarters to Banfi Vintners, who have restored the sixty-room house and grounds to its former glory. Any of these uses would be preferable to… well, to twenty tractor sheds inhabited by stockbrokers and their broods.

William Stanhope, incidentally, is far enough removed from here not to fully appreciate the fact that my environmental activities and his instructions to me are very nearly mutually exclusive. This is called a conflict of interest and is both unethical and illegal. But I really don't care. He's getting what he's paying for.

My father-in-law, you understand, can, if pushed, come up with the four hundred thousand dollars in back taxes but chooses not to, not until he's got a buyer or until the day before a tax seizure takes place. He fully intends to protect his huge asset unless and until he determines it is a liability and cannot be sold in his lifetime.

If you're wondering what this white elephant is worth to William Stanhope and his heirs and successors, here are the figures: two hundred acres, if they could be rezoned into ten-acre plots, would fetch over a million dollars a plot on the fabled Gold Coast, which amounts to a total of over twenty million dollars before taxes.

Susan, I assume, will eventually inherit enough money to get herself a full-time stable mucker and someone to help me and old George with the gardening. If you're wondering what else is in it for me, you should know that these sorts of people rarely let money get out of the immediate family. In fact, I entered into a prenuptial agreement long before the middle class even knew such a thing existed. William Stanhope and his paid attorney drew up the 'marriage contract', as it was then called, and I acted as my own attorney, proving the adage that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Anyway, William has been getting free legal advice from the fool ever since.

On the brighter side, Edward and Carolyn have a trust fund into which Stanhope monies are deposited. And in fairness to Susan, the 'marriage contract' was not her idea. I don't want the Stanhope money anyway, but neither do I want the Stanhope problems. I said to Lester, "Neither Susan nor I am in favour of suburban sprawl, nor, specifically, the development of Stanhope Hall for monetary gain. But if this paradise is to be down-zoned to limbo, then we each have to decide if we wish to stay or leave. That is also an option." "Leave for where, John? Where do people like us go?"

"Hilton Head."

"Hilton Head?"

"Any planned little Eden where nothing will ever change."

"This is my home, John. The Remsens have been here for over two hundred years." "And so have the Whitmans and the Sutters. You know that." In fact, I should tell you that Lester Remsen and I are related in some murky way that neither of us chooses to clarify.

Families that predate the millionaires can indulge themselves in some snobbery, even if their forebears were fishermen and farmers. I said to Lester, "We're on borrowed time here. You know that."

"Are you playing devil's advocate, or are you giving up? Are you and Susan moving? Is this Bellarosa thing the last straw?"

Sometimes I think Lester likes me, so I took the question as a show of concern and not an expression of desire. I replied, "I've thought of it. Susan has never once mentioned it."

"Where would you go?"

I didn't know five seconds before he asked, but then it occurred to me. "I would go to sea."

"Where?"

"Sea, sea. That wet stuff that makes waterfront property so expensive."

"Oh…"

"I'm a good sailor. I'd get a sixty footer and just go." I was excited now.

"First I'd go down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, then into the Caribbean

– "

"But what about Susan?" he interrupted.

"What about her?"

"The horses, man. The horses."

I thought a moment. In truth, a horse would be a problem on a boat. I ordered another drink.

We sat and drank in silence awhile. I was beginning to feel the effects of the fourth martini. I looked around for Beryl Carlisle, but her idiot of a husband caught my eye. I smiled stupidly at him, then turned to Lester. "Nice chap." "Who?"

"Beryl Carlisle's husband."

"He's a schmuck."

Lester picks up words like that where he works. Putz is another one. They seem like excellent words, but I just can't seem to find the opportunity to try one of them.

We sat awhile longer, and the crowd was starting to thin. I wondered where Susan was and if I was supposed to meet her somewhere. Susan has this habit of thinking she's told me something when she hasn't, and then accusing me of forgetting. I understand from friends that this is quite common among wives. I ordered another drink to jog my memory.

Horses and boats went through my mind, and I tried to reconcile the two. I had this neat mental image of Zanzibar, stuffed and mounted on the bow of my new sixty-foot schooner.

I looked at Lester, who seemed deep in his own reveries, which probably ran along the lines of horse-mounted gentry burning down tractor sheds and trampling tricycles.

I heard Susan's voice beside me. "Hello, Lester," she said. "Are you still insulted? You look all right." Susan can be direct at times. Lester asked, "What do you mean?" feigning ignorance.

Susan ignored that and asked, "Where's Judy?"

Lester said with real ignorance, "I don't know." He thought a moment and added, "I should call her."

"First you have to know where she is," Susan pointed out. "What were you and John talking about?"

"Stocks and golf," I answered before Lester could dredge up the subject of Stanhope Hall again, which is not Susan's favourite topic. I said to Lester, "While you're trying to remember where your wife is, would you like to join us for dinner?" I shouldn't have had the fourth or fifth martini. Actually, the fifth was okay. It was the fourth I shouldn't have had.

Lester rose unsteadily. "I remember now. We're having people for dinner."

Susan said, "You must get me the recipe."

Susan was obviously irked at something. Poor Lester seemed muddled. He said, "Yes, of course I can. Would you like to come along? I'll call." Susan replied, "Thanks, but we have dinner plans."

I didn't know if this was true or not, because Susan never tells me these things.

Lester wished us a good evening, and Susan told him to drive carefully. I stood and steadied myself against the wall. I smiled at Susan. "Good to see you."

"How many of me do you see?" she asked.

"I'm quite sober," I assured her, then changed the subject. I said, "I see the Carlisles here. I thought we'd ask if they could join us for dinner." "Why?"

"Isn't she a friend of yours?" I asked.

"No."

"I thought she was. I rather like…" – I couldn't remember his name – "her husband."

"You think he's a pompous ass." She added, "We have dinner plans."

"With whom?"

"I told you this morning."

"No, you didn't. With whom? Where? I can't drive."

"That's obvious." She took my arm. "We're having dinner here." We made our way through the house to the opposite wing and arrived at the largest of the dining rooms. Susan directed me toward a table at which sat the Vandermeers, of all people.

It was obvious to me that Martin's wife had also failed to inform him of the evening's plans.

Susan and I sat at the round table with the white tablecloth and exchanged small talk with the Vandermeers. Sometimes I think that Eli Whitney got his idea of interchangeable parts from upper middle-class society where all the people are interchangeable. Everyone in that room could have switched tables all night, and the conversations wouldn't have missed a beat.

I realized that my growing criticism of my peers was more a result of changes within me than any changes in them. What had once made me comfortable was now making me restless, and I was, quite frankly, concerned about the compromises and accommodations that had taken over my life in insidious ways. I was fed up with being the caretaker of Stanhope Hall, tired of everyone's obsession with the status quo, impatient with the small talk, annoyed at old ladies who walked into my office with ten million dollars in an old valise, and generally unhappy with what had once made me content.

Oddly enough, I didn't recall feeling that way the week before. I wasn't certain how this revelation came about, but revelations are like that; they just smack you across the face one day, and you know you've arrived at the truth without even knowing you were looking for it. What you do about it is another matter. I didn't realize it then, but I was ready for a great adventure. What I also didn't know was that my new next-door neighbour had decided to provide one for me.

CHAPTER 7

Saturday morning passed uneventfully except that I had a slight headache brought on, no doubt, by the Vandermeers' hot air. Also, the Allards both had the flu, and I paid them a sick call. I made them tea in the gatehouse's little kitchen, which made me feel like a regular guy. I even stayed for half a cup, while George apologized six times for being sick. Ethel's usual surliness turns to a sort of maudlinism when she's ill. I like her better that way. I should mention that during the Second World War, George Allard went off to serve his country, as did all the able-bodied male staff at Stanhope Hall and, of course, the other estates. George once told me during a social history lesson that this exodus of servants made life difficult for the families who had managed to hold on to their huge houses through the Depression, and who still needed male staff for heavy estate work. George also tells me that higher wartime wages lured many of the servant girls away for defence work and such. George somehow associates me with this class of gentry and thinks I should feel retroactively saddened by the great hardships that the Stanhopes and others endured during the war. Right, George. When I picture William Stanhope having to lay out his own clothes every morning while his valet is goofing off on Normandy Beach, a lump comes to my throat.

William, by the way, did serve his country during this national emergency. There are two versions of this story. I'll relate Ethel's version: William Stanhope, through family connections, received a commission in the Coast Guard. Grandpa Augustus Stanhope, unable to make use of his seventy-foot yacht, The Sea Urchin, sold it to the government for a dollar, as did many yacht owners during the war. The Sea Urchin was outfitted as a submarine patrol boat, and its skipper turned out to be none other than Lt (j.g.) William Stanhope. Ethel says this was not a coincidence. Anyway, The Sea Urchin, with a new coat of grey paint, sonar, depth charges, and a.50-calibre machine gun, was conveniently berthed at the Seawanhaka Corinthian. From there, Lieutenant Stanhope patrolled up and down the Long Island Sound, ready to take on the German U-boat fleet, protecting the American way of life, and occasionally putting in at Martha's Vineyard for a few beers. And not wanting to take up government housing, William lived at Stanhope Hall.

Ethel is probably justified in her opinion that William Stanhope's wartime service symbolized the worst aspects of American capitalism, privilege, and family connections. Yet most of the upper classes, from all I've read and heard, did their duty, and many went beyond the call of duty. But Ethel excludes any realities that upset her prejudices. In this respect she is exactly like William Stanhope, like me, and like every other human being I've ever met, sane and insane alike. Needless to say, William does not regale his friends or family with war stories. Anyway, George returned from the Pacific in 1945 with malaria, and he still has episodes from time to time, but this day I was sure it was just the flu. I offered to call the doctor, but Ethel said cryptically, "He can't help us."

George and Ethel had been married right before George shipped out, and Augustus Stanhope, as was the custom at the time, provided the wedding reception in the great house.

A few years ago, during a chance conversation with an older client of mine, I discovered that Grandpa Augustus, who would have been in his fifties then, also provided Ethel with some degree of companionship while George was killing our future allies in the Pacific. Apparently this small investment of time and effort on Ethel's part paid dividends, the Allards being the only staff not let go over the years. Also, there was the generous gift of the gatehouse, rent-free for life. I often wondered if George knew that his master was dipping his pen in George's inkwell. But even if he did, George would still be convinced that it was his loyalty, rather than his wife's disloyalty, that was responsible for the old coot's generosity. Well, maybe. Good help is still harder to find than a good lay.

I don't normally listen to gossip, but this was too interesting to resist.

Besides, it's more in the category of social history than hot news. As I drank my tea, I looked at Ethel and smiled. She gave me a pained grimace in return. Above her head on the wall of the small sitting room was a formal photograph of her and George, he in his navy whites, she in a white dress. She was a very pretty young woman.

What interested me about this story was not that a lonely young war bride had had an affair with her older employer; what interested me was that Ethel Allard, the good Christian socialist, had done it for the lord of the manor and had perhaps blackmailed him, subtly or not so subtly.

A place like this is rife with interlocking relationships that, if explored, would be far more damaging to the social structure than depression, war, and taxes.

The Allards, by the way, have a daughter, Elizabeth, who looks enough like George to put my mind at ease concerning any more Stanhope heirs. Elizabeth, incidentally, is a successful boutique owner – a shopkeeper, like her maternal grandfather – with stores in three surrounding villages, and Susan makes a point of sending her acquisitive friends to all of them, though she herself is not much of a shopper. I saw Elizabeth's name in the local newspaper once in connection with a Republican Party fund-raiser. God bless America, Ethel; where else can socialists give birth to Republicans and vice versa? I took my leave of the Allards and reminded them to call me or Susan if they needed anything. Susan, for all her aloofness, does have that sense of noblesse oblige, which is one of the few things I admire about the old monied classes, and she takes care of the people who work for her. I hope Ethel remembers that when the Revolution comes.

I spent the early afternoon doing errands in Locust Valley, then stopped at McGlade's, the local pub, for a beer. The usual Saturday crowd was there, including the pub's Softball team, back from trouncing the florist's ten pathetic sissies, who were there also and had a different version of the game. There were a few self-employed building-trade contractors who needed a drink after giving estimates to homeowners all morning, and there were the weekend joggers who all seemed to have a suspicious amount of tread left on their hundred-dollar running shoes hooked around the bar rails. And then there were the minor gentry in their Land's End and L. L. Bean uniforms, and the major gentry whose attire is difficult to describe, except to say you've never seen it in a store or catalogue. The old gentleman beside me, for instance, had on a pink tweed shooting jacket with a green leather gun patch, and his trousers were baggy green wool embroidered with dozens of little ducks. I was wearing the L. L. Bean uniform: Docksides, tan poplin trousers, button-down plaid shirt, and blue windbreaker. Many of us were perusing wife-authored 'to do' lists as we sipped our beer, and our wallets, when opened for cash, revealed pink dry-cleaning slips. On the restaurant side, well-dressed women with shopping bags were chatting over cottage cheese and lettuce. It was definitely Saturday. Good pubs, like churches, are great equalizers of social distinctions; more so, perhaps, because when you approach the rail in a pub, you do so with the full knowledge that talking is not only permitted but often required. In fact, as I was having my second beer, I saw in the bar mirror my plumber, leaning against the wall behind me. I went over to him and we talked about my plumbing problems. To wit: I have a cracked cast-iron waste pipe, and he wants to replace it with PVC pipe, at some expense. I think it can be soldered instead. He asked me about the procedure for adopting his second wife's son, and I gave him an estimate. I think we were too expensive for each other, and the conversation turned to the Mets. You can talk baseball here. I chatted with a few other acquaintances, then with the bartender and with the old gentleman with the pink tweed jacket, who turned out not to be major gentry but a retired butler from the Phipps' estate who was wearing the boss's cast-offs. You used to get a lot of that around here, but I see less of it in recent years.

It was too nice a day to spend more than an hour in the pub, so I left, but before I did, I gave my plumber the name of an adoption attorney whose fees are moderate. He gave me the name of a handyman who could try a weld on the pipe. The wheels of American commerce spin, spin, spin.

I got into my Bronco and headed home. On the way back, I passed my office and assured myself it was still there. I thought about the ten million in stocks stashed in the vault. It would not be a problem to have Mrs Lauderbach – that's my client's name – sign the necessary papers for me to liquidate the stocks, and for me to hop on down to Rio for a very long vacation. And I didn't need Lester Remsen's help in this at all. But I've never violated a trust or stolen a nickel, and I never will. I felt very pious. What a day I was having. My mood stayed bright until I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall, when my brow, as they say, darkened. I'd never really noticed it before, but this place was getting me down. The truth, once it grabs hold of you, makes you take notice of the little buzzings in your head. This was not your garden-variety midlife crisis. This was no crisis at all. This was Revelation, Epiphany, Truth. Unfortunately, like most middle-aged men, I had no idea what to do with the truth. But I was open to suggestions.

I stopped at the gatehouse and looked in on the Allards, who were listening to the radio and reading. Ethel was engrossed in a copy of The New Republic, which may have been the only copy in Lattingtown, and George was perusing the Locust Valley Sentinel, which he's been reading for sixty years to keep abreast of who died, got married, had children, owed taxes, wanted zoning variances, or had a gripe they wanted to see in print.

I picked up Susan's and my mail, which is delivered to the gatehouse, and riffled through it on my way out. Ethel called after me, "There was a gentleman here to see you. He didn't leave his name."

Sometimes, as when the phone rings, you just know who's calling. And Ethel's stress on the word gentleman told me that this was no gentleman. I asked, "A dark-haired man driving a black Cadillac?"

"Yes."

Ethel never says 'sir', so George chimed in, "Yes, sir. I told him you were not receiving visitors today. I hope that was all right." He added, "I didn't know him, and I didn't think you did."

Or wanted to, George. I smiled at the image of Frank Bellarosa being told that Mr Sutter was not receiving today. I wondered if he knew that meant 'get lost'. George asked, "What shall I say if he calls again, sir?" I replied as if I'd already thought this out, and I guess I must have. "If I'm at home, show him in."

"Yes, sir," George replied with that smooth combination of professional disinterest and personal disagreement with the master. I left the gatehouse and climbed back into the Bronco.

I drove past the turnoff for my house and continued on toward the main house. Between my house and the main house, on Stanhope land, is the tennis court, whose upkeep Susan had taken on as her responsibility. Beyond the tennis court, the tree-lined lane rises, and I stopped the Bronco at the top of the rise and got out. Across a field of emerging wildflowers and mixed grasses, where the great lawn once stretched, stood Stanhope Hall.

The design of the mansion, according to Susan and as described in various architectural books that mention Stanhope Hall, was based on French and Italian Renaissance prototypes. However, the exterior is not European marble, but is built of good Yankee granite. Spaced along the front are attached columns or wall pilasters with Ionic capitals, and in the centre of the house is a high, open portico with freestanding classical columns. The roof is flat, with a balustraded parapet running around the perimeter of the mansion's three massive wings. The place looks a bit like the White House, actually, but better built. There were once formal gardens, of course, and they were planted on the descending terraces that surround the great house. Each year at this time the gardens still burst into bloom, wild with roses and laurel, yellow forsythia and multicoloured azaleas, the survival of the fittest, a celebration of nature's independence from man.

For all the European detail, there are distinctly American features to the house, including large picture windows in the rear, a greenhouse-style breakfast room to capture the rising sun, a solarium on the roof, and an American infrastructure of steel beams, heating ducts, good plumbing, and safe electricity.

But to answer Lester Remsen's question, there is nothing architecturally significant or unique about this misplaced European palace. Had McKim, Mead, or White designed a truly new American house, whatever that might have been in 1906, then the landmark people and all the rest of the preservationists would say, "There is nothing like this in the whole country." But the architects and their American clients of this period were not looking into the future, or even trying to create the present; they were looking back over their shoulders into a European past that had flowered and died even before the first block of granite arrived on this site. What these people were trying to create or re-create here in this new world is beyond me. I can't put myself in their minds or their hearts, but I can sympathize with their struggle for an identity, with their puzzlement which has troubled Americans from the very beginning – Who are we, where do we fit, where are we going? It occurred to me that these estates are not only architectural shams, but they are shams in a more profound way. Unlike their European models, these estates never produced a profitable stalk of wheat, a bucket of milk, or a bottle of wine. There was some hobby farming, to be sure, but the crops certainly didn't support the house and the servants and the Rolls-Royces. And no one who was hired to work the land here could have felt the sense of wonder and excitement that comes with the harvest and the assurance that the earth and the Lord, not the stock market, has provided.

Well, what do I know about that? Actually, my ancestors were mostly farmers and fishermen, and fishing I do understand, but my ability to coax things from the ground is limited to inedibles, as Mr Bellarosa pointed out. I recalled his red wagon filled with vegetable seedlings, purchased at top dollar from an upscale nursery, and I decided he was a sham, too.

This whole silly Gold Coast was a sham, an American anomaly, in a country that was an anomaly to the rest of the world. Well, no one ever said the truth would make you happy – only free.

Of course, there were other yet undiscovered truths, and there were other people's truths, but that was yet to come.

I looked out at Stanhope Hall and beyond. The large gazebo, another American accoutrement, was visible on the back lawn, surrounded by overhanging sycamores, and in the distance was the English hedge maze, a ridiculous amusement for young ladies and their fatuous beaux, all of whom should have spent more time in the love temple and less time running around hedge mazes. The land fell away beyond the hedges, but I could see the tops of the plum orchard, half of whose trees were now dead. The orchard, according to Susan, had originally been called the sacred grove, in the pagan fashion of nature worship. And in the centre of the grove is the Roman love temple, a small but perfectly proportioned round structure of buff marble columns that hold up a curved frieze carved with some very erotic scenes. In the domed roof is an opening, and the shaft of sunlight and moonlight that comes through at certain hours illuminates two pink marble statues, one of a man or a god, and the other of a busty Venus, locked in a nude embrace.

The purpose of this place mystifies me, but there were a number of them built on the more lavish estates. I can only conjecture that classical nudity was acceptable; Greco-Roman tits and ass was not just art, it was one of the few ways to see T and A in 1906, and only millionaires could afford this expensive thrill.

I don't know if young women, or even mature ladies, ventured into the plum grove to see this porn palace, but you can be sure that Susan and I make good use of it on summer evenings. Susan likes being a vestal virgin surprised by John the Barbarian while praying in the temple. She's been deflowered about sixty times, which may be a record.

The temple may be a sham, but it is a beautiful sham, and Susan is no virgin, and I'm an imperfect barbarian, but the heart-stopping orgasms are real, and real things happen to real people even in Disney World. I knew right then that despite my recent disenchantment with my enchanted world, I was going to miss this place.

I got back into my Bronco and headed home.

CHAPTER 8

Lester Remsen showed up at my Locust Valley office on Monday afternoon to take care of Mrs Lauderbach's ten-million-dollar problem. The actual figure according to Lester's research department was, as of three P.M. that day, $10,132,564 and a few cents. This included about sixty years of unpaid dividends on which, unfortunately, no interest was given.

Mrs Lauderbach had a hairdresser's appointment and could not join us, but I had power of attorney and was prepared to sign most of the brokerage house's paperwork on her behalf. Lester and I went to the second-floor law library, which had been the study of the Victorian house on Birch Hill Road. We spread out our paperwork on the library table.

Lester commented, "This is one for the books. Good Lord, you'd think she'd be interested in this."

I shrugged. "She had grey roots."

Lester smiled and we began the tedious paperwork in which I had less interest than Mrs Lauderbach. I ordered coffee as we neared the end of the task. Lester handed me a document and I handed him one. Lester seemed not to be focusing on the task at hand, and he laid down the paper, stayed silent for a moment, and said, "She's how old? Seventy-eight?"

"She was when we started."

Lester seemed to miss my drollness and asked, "And you're also the attorney for her will?"

"That's correct."

"Can I ask who her heirs are?"

"You can ask, but I can't say." I added, however, "She has three children." Lester nodded. "I know one of them. Mary. She's married to Phil Crowley. They're in Old Westbury."

"That's right."

"I never knew the Lauderbachs had so much money."

"Neither did the Lauderbachs."

"Well, I mean, they always lived well. They used to own The Beeches, didn't they?" He looked at Mrs Lauderbach's address on a document. "But they've moved to a house in Oyster Bay village."

"Yes."

"They sold The Beeches to an Iranian Jew, didn't they?" "I didn't handle that. But yes, they did. They got a fair price, and the new owners are maintaining the property quite well."

"Hey, I don't care if they're Iranian Jews," Lester smiled. "Better than a Mafia don."

Better than twenty Lester Remsens. The Lauderbachs, incidentally, had used a large law firm with no connections to the gentry for the property closing on The Beeches. This is sometimes done when the old homestead is being sold to people with funny last names. I suppose I see the point, which is that local attorneys might not want to be involved in a property transaction that other clients and neighbours disapprove of. Well, that was true in the Lauderbachs' day, but recently the Gold Coast reminds me of a nation that is about to fall, and no one is pretending any longer that everything is all right; instead, everyone is grabbing whatever he can and fleeing for the airport. I don't know if I would have handled the closing if asked. It was probably worth ten thousand dollars for a day's work, and I personally have nothing against Iranian Jews or any other foreigners. But some of my clients and neighbours do. Lester asked, "You don't think Mr Lauderbach knew he had ten Bullion in stocks?" "I don't know if he did, Lester. I didn't know or I'd have advised him to open an account with you." I added, There were plenty of other assets. It didn't matter. You can spend only so much in a lifetime, Ernest Lauderbach ran out of time before he ran out of money."

"But the dividends should have been reinvested. They just sat there not collecting a dime. That's like giving Chase Manhattan and American Express interest-free loans."

Money that lies fallow upsets Lester. His children never had piggy banks. They had money market accounts.

Lester perused Ernest Lauderbach's will. "Neither Mary nor the other two children, Randolf and Herman, inherited under this will?" "No, they didn't." It was Lester's right to examine the will to establish Mrs Lauderbach's ownership to all the property. My father had drawn up the sixth and last edition of Ernest Lauderbach's last will and testament about ten years before, but the stock and bond assets were only identified as "securities and other money instruments that I may hold at the time of my death." Clearly, no one, including the Lauderbachs' three children, knew precisely what was in the vault in the basement of the Oyster Bay house. I was fairly certain they still didn't know, or I'd have heard from all three of them and/or their attorneys by now.

Lester inquired, "Where are Herman and Randolf?"

"Herman is retired in Virginia, and Randolf is a businessman in Chicago. Why?"

"I'd like to handle their stock assets when they inherit. That's why." Lester and I both knew that this conversation actually had to do with the possibility of making sure that Randolf, Herman, and Mary did not inherit these stock assets. But I said, "I'll recommend you to them if I'm satisfied with how this account is handled."

"Thanks. I suppose they know about this?" He patted a pile of stock certificates.

I ignored the question and its implications and said politely but firmly, "Lester, regarding your handling of this account, do not play the market for Mrs Lauderbach. Those are two perfectly good stocks. Just leave them in place and see that she gets her past and future dividend cheques. If she needs money for estate taxes, I'll advise you, and we'll sell off some shares for Uncle Sam." "John, you know I wouldn't churn this account for the commissions." Lester, to be fair, is an ethical broker, or I wouldn't deal with him. But he's in an occupation whose temptations would give Jesus Christ anxiety attacks. Such was the case now, with ten million sitting on the mahogany table in front of him. I could almost see that little devil on his left shoulder, and the angel on his right, both chattering in his ears. I didn't want to interrupt, but I said, "It doesn't matter, you know, who knows about this money, who needs it, who deserves it, or that Agnes Lauderbach doesn't give a rat's ass about it." He shrugged and sort of changed the subject. "I wonder why the Lauderbachs didn't hold on to The Beeches if they knew they had this kind of money." I replied, "Not everyone wants a fifty-room house and two hundred acres, Lester.

It's a waste of money even if you've got money. How many bathrooms do you need?" Lester chuckled, then asked, "Would you buy Stanhope Hall if you had ten million dollars?"

"You mean five million, partner."

Lester smiled sheepishly and glanced at me to see if I was baiting him, then lowered his eyes, which swept across the paper-strewn table and rested on the piles of stock certificates. He asked, "Or would you buy that sixty footer and sail off into the sunset?"

I was sorry I had confided in Lester. I didn't reply.

"Or think about getting Susan out of the guesthouse and back into the great house." There was a silence in the room, during which Lester was thinking of what he'd do with five million dollars, and I guess I was thinking of what I'd do with ten, since I had no intention of compounding a crime with the sin of sharing any of it with Lester Remsen.

It occurred to me that Lester is the type of person who is honest out of fright, but he likes to flirt with dishonesty to see how it feels to have balls, if you'll pardon the expression. And he likes to see how other people react to his enticements.

Lester spoke in a way that suggested he was speaking apropos of nothing. "It's very easy, John, now that I see the paperwork and the actual certificates. And it's a big enough sum to make it worthwhile. And I don't think we even have to leave the country afterwards, if it's handled right. When the old lady dies, you'll have seen to it that nothing appears in her will regarding this." Lester went on in this vein, never using bad words such as federal tax evasion, steal, forge, or fraud. I listened, more out of curiosity than a need to be educated in crime by Lester.

I don't know why I am honest. I suppose it is partially a result of my parents, who were paragons of virtue if nothing else. And when I was growing up in the fifties, the message from the pulpit and in Sunday school and my private school had less to do with the world's ill and injustices, and more to do with how to behave correctly toward others. It was the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule, and believe it or not, young men and women were supposed to have personal mottoes to live by. Mine was, "I will strive each day to give more than I receive." I don't know where I got that, but it's a good way to go broke. But I must have lived by it once, maybe until I was eighteen. Maybe longer. Yet millions of men and women of my generation were raised the same way, and some of them are thieves, and some much worse. So why am I honest? What is keeping me from ten million dollars and from the nearly naked ladies on Ipanema beach? That's what Lester wanted to know. That's what I wanted to know. I looked at the pile of stock certificates, and Lester interrupted his dissertation on how to safely steal ten million to inform me, "No one cares anymore, John. The rules are out the window. That's not my fault or yours. It just is. I'm tired of being a sucker, of fighting by Marquess of Queensberry rules while I'm getting kicked in the groin, and the referee is being paid to look the other way."

I made no reply.

Until very recently, one of the reasons for my honesty was my contentment with my life, the whole social matrix into which I fit and functioned. But when you decide you won't miss home, what keeps you from stealing the family car to get away? I looked at Lester, who held eye contact for a change. I said, "As you once observed, money doesn't tempt me," which was the truth. "Why doesn't money tempt you?"

I looked at Lester. "I don't know."

"Money is neutral, John. It has no inherent good or evil. Think of it as Indian wampum. Seashells. It's up to you what you do with it." "And how you get it."

Lester shrugged.

I said, "Maybe in this case, I think that taking money from a batty old lady is no challenge and beneath my dignity and my professional ability to steal from sharp people. Find something dangerous and we'll talk again." I added, "I'll have the stocks delivered to your Manhattan office tomorrow by bonded courier." Lester looked both disappointed and relieved. He gathered the paperwork into his briefcase and stood. "Well… what would life be like if we couldn't dream?" "Dream good dreams."

"I did. You should dream a little."

"Don't be a schmuck, Lester."

He seemed a little put off, so I guess I used the word right. Lester said coolly, "Don't forget I need Mrs Lauderbach's signature cards." "I'll see her tomorrow, on her way to her lunch date."

Lester extended his hand and we shook. He said, "Thanks for giving me this account. I owe you dinner."

"Dinner would be fine."

Lester left with a parting glance at the ten million dollars lying on the table.

I carried the stock certificates downstairs and put them in my vault. The remainder of the week, which was Holy Week before Easter, passed in predictable fashion. On Thursday evening, Maundy Thursday, we went to St Mark's with the Allards, who were well again. The Reverend Mr Hunnings washed the feet of a dozen men and women of the congregation. This ceremony, if you don't know, is in imitation of Christ's washing the feet of his disciples and is supposed to symbolize the humility of the great toward the small. I didn't need my feet washed, but apparently Ethel did, so up she went to the altar with a bunch of other people who I guess had volunteered for this ahead of time because none of the women had panty hose on and none of the men wore silly socks. Now, I don't mean to make fun of my own religion, but I find this ceremony bizarre in the extreme. In fact, it's rarely performed, but Hunnings seems to enjoy it, and I wonder about him. One Maundy Thursday, when I get enough nerve, I'm going to volunteer to have my feet washed by the Reverend Mr Hunnings, and when I take my socks off, on each toenail will be painted a happy face. Anyway, after services, we had George, and Ethel of the clean feet, to our house for what Susan referred to as the Last Supper, being the last meal she intended to cook until Monday.

Friday was Good Friday, and in recent years I've noticed that around here at least, people have adopted the European custom of not working on this solemn day. Even the Stock Exchange was closed, and so, of course, Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, whose Wall Street office is in lockstep with the Exchange, was shut down. Whether this new holiday is a result of the religious reawakening in our country or a desire for a three-day weekend, I don't know, and no one is saying. But in any event, I had earlier in the week declared the Locust Valley office closed for Good Friday and then surprised the staff and annoyed the Wall Street partners by announcing that the Locust Valley office would also observe Easter Monday as the Europeans do. I'm trying to start a trend. Susan and I, along with Ethel and George, went to St Mark's for the three-o'clock service, which marks the traditional time when the sky darkened and the earth shook and Christ died on the cross. I remember a Good Friday when I was a small boy, walking up the steps of St Mark's on a bright, sunny day that did suddenly turn dark with thunderclouds. I recall staring up at the sky in awe, waiting, I guess, for the earth to shake. A few adults smiled at me, then my mother came out of the church and led me inside. But this day was sunny, with no dramatic meteorological or geological phenomena, and had anything of the sort occurred, it would have been explained on the six-o'clock weather report. St Mark's was filled with well-dressed people, and the Reverend Mr Hunnings, looking resplendent in his Holy Week crimson robes, stuck to business, which was the death of Jesus Christ. There were no social messages in the sermon, for which I thanked God. Hunnings, incidentally, also gives us a guilt break on Easter Sunday and usually at Christmas, except then he goes on a bit about materialism and commercialism.

After the austere service, Susan and I dropped off the Allards, parked the Jag, and took a long walk around the estate, enjoying the weather and the new blooms. I can picture how this place must have looked in its heyday – gardeners and nurserymen bustling around, planting, trimming, cultivating, raking. But now it looks forlorn: too much deadwood and layers of leaves from twenty autumns past. It's not quite returned to nature, but the grounds and gardens, like much around here – including my life – are in that transitional stage between order and chaos.

Edward and Carolyn were not coming home for Easter this year, having made travel plans with friends, and I suppose Susan and I, like many couples who have discovered their children are gone, were reflecting on a time when the kids were kids and holidays were family affairs.

As we walked up the drive toward Stanhope Hall, Susan said, "Do you remember when we opened up the big house and had that Easter egg hunt?" I smiled. "We hid a hundred eggs for twenty kids, and only eighty eggs were found. There are still twenty eggs rotting in there somewhere." Susan laughed. "And we lost a kid, too. Jamie Lerner. He was screaming from the north wing for half an hour before we found him."

"Did we find him? I thought he was still in there, living on Easter eggs." We walked past the great house, hand in hand, onto the back lawn, and sat in the old gazebo. Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, "Where do the years go?" I shrugged.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked.

This question is fraught with all types of danger when a spouse asks it. I replied, "No," which in husband talk means yes.

"Another woman?"

"No," which in the right tone of voice means no, no, no.

"Then what?"

"I don't know."

She remarked, "You've been very distant."

Susan is sometimes so distant I have to dial an area code to get through to her. But people like that don't appreciate it when it's reversed. I replied with a stock husband phrase: "It's nothing to do with you."

Some wives would be relieved to hear that, even if it weren't true, but Susan didn't seem about to break into a grin and throw her arms around me. Instead, she said, "Judy Remsen tells me that you told Lester you wanted to sail around the world."

If Lester were there, I would have punched him in the nose. I said sarcastically, "Is that what Judy Remsen told you that I told Lester?" "Yes. Do you want to sail around the world?"

"It sounded like a good idea at the time. I was drunk." Which sounded lame, so in the spirit of truth, I added, "But I have considered it." "Am I included in those plans?"

Susan sometimes surprises me with little flashes of insecurity. If I were a more manipulative man, I would promote this insecurity as a means of keeping her attention, if not her affection. I know she does it to me. I asked, "Would you consider living in our East Hampton House?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I like it here."

"You like East Hampton," I pointed out.

"It's a nice place to spend part of the summer."

"Why don't we sail around the world?"

"Why don't you sail around the world?"

"Good question." Bitchy, but good. Time to promote insecurity. "I may do that." Susan stood. "Better yet, John, why don't you ask yourself what you're running from?"

"Don't get analytical on me, Susan."

"Then let me tell you what's bothering you. Your children aren't home for Easter, your wife is a bitch, your friends are idiots, your job is boring, you dislike my father, you hate Stanhope Hall, the Allards are getting on your nerves, you're not rich enough to control events and not poor enough to stop trying. Should I go on?"

"Sure."

"You're alienated from your parents or vice versa, you've had one too many dinners at the club, attractive young women don't take your flirting seriously anymore, life is without challenge, maybe without meaning, and possibly without hope. And nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well, welcome to American upper-middle-class middle age, John Sutter."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and lest I forget, a Mafia don has just moved in next door."

"That might be the only bright spot in the picture."

"It might well be."

Susan and I looked at each other, but neither of us explained what we meant by that last exchange. I stood. "I feel better now."

"Good. You just needed a mental enema."

I smiled. Actually, I did feel better, maybe because I was happy to discover that Susan and I were still in touch.

Susan threw her arm around my shoulders, which I find very tomboyish, yet somehow more intimate than an embrace. She said, "I wish it were another woman. I could take care of that damned quickly."

I smiled. "Some attractive young women take me seriously."

"Oh, I'm sure of that."

"Right."

We left the gazebo and walked on a path that led into a treed hollow that lay south of the mansion. I said, "You're not always a bitch. And I don't dislike your father. I hate his guts."

"Good for you. He feels the same way about you."

"Excellent."

We continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan's arm still thrown over my shoulders. I'm not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don't hurt other people.

I said, "By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn't receiving."

"George said that to Bishop Eberly?"

"No, to Bishop Frank."

"Oh…" She laughed. "That Bishop." She thought a moment. "He'll be back."

"You think so?" I added, "I wonder what he wanted."

Susan replied, "You'll find out."

"Don't sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbour."

"For your information, I've called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven't heard from him or seen him."

The Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra's gates. I said, "Then it appears as if Mr Bellarosa has singled us out for neighbourly attention."

"Well, you met him. Maybe you said something encouraging."

"Hardly." And I still wondered how he knew who I was and what I looked like.

That was upsetting.

We came out of the trees at a place where there was a small footpath, paved with moss-covered stone. I steered Susan toward the path and felt her resist for a moment, then yield. We walked up the stone path, which was covered by an old rose trellis, and at the end of the path was the charred ruin of the gingerbread playhouse. The remaining beams and rafters supported climbing ivy that had crept up from the stone fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself was intact with a mantel and a large black kettle still hanging from a wrought-iron arm. In true fairy-tale fashion, there was, and had been as I recalled before the fire, something sinister about the cute little cottage.

Susan asked, "Why did you want to walk here?"

"I thought since you were analysing my head, I'd like to know why you never come here."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Because I've never seen you walk here, and I've never seen a hoof print near this place."

"It's sad to see it this way."

"But we never came here before the fire, never played our games here."

She didn't reply.

"I suppose I can understand not wanting to have sex in a playhouse with childhood memories."

Susan said nothing.

I walked up to what had been the front door, but Susan didn't follow. I could make out a flower box that had fallen from a window ledge, pieces of stained glass and melted lead, and the burned skeleton of a bed and mattress that had fallen through from the second floor. I asked, "Well, are the memories good or bad?"

"Both."

"Tell me the good ones."

She took a few steps toward the house, knelt, and picked up a shard of pottery. She said, "I had sleepovers here in the summer. A dozen girls, up all night, giggling, laughing, singing, and deliciously terrified at every noise outside." I smiled.

She approached the house and surveyed the blackened timbers, which still emitted an odour ten years after the fire. "Lots of good memories." I'm glad. Let's go." I took her arm.

"Do you want to know about the bad things?"

"Not really."

"The servants used to come here sometimes and have parties. And sex." She added, "I realized it was sex when I was about thirteen. They used to lock the door. I wouldn't sleep in that bed again."

I didn't respond.

"I mean, it was my house. A place that I thought belonged to me."

"I understand."

"And… one day… I was about fifteen, I came here and the door wasn't locked and I went inside and up the stairs to get something I'd left in the bedroom… and this couple was lying there, naked, asleep…" She glanced at me. "I guess I was traumatized." She forced a smile. "Today, I don't know if a fifteen-year-old girl would be traumatized by that. I mean, how could they be? You see naked people on TV doing it."

"True." But I couldn't believe that still bothered her. There was more to it, and I sensed she was going to tell me what it was.

She stayed silent awhile before saying, "My mother used to come here with someone."

"I see." I wondered if it was her mother that she'd seen in bed, and with whom.

She walked across the littered floorboards and stopped beside the burned bed.

"And I lost my virginity here."

I didn't respond.

She turned toward me and smiled sadly. "Some playhouse."

"Let's go."

She walked past me, onto the path between the rose bushes. I came up beside her.

I said, "Was it you who burned the place down?"

"Yes."

I didn't know what to say, so I said, "Sorry."

"It's all right."

I put my arm around her and said in a lighter tone, "Did I ever tell you about that Good Friday when I was a kid and the sky suddenly darkened?" "Several times. Tell me how you lost your virginity."

"I told you."

"You told me three different versions. I'll bet I was your first lay."

"Maybe. But not my last."

She punched me in the ribs. "Wise guy."

We walked in silence back through the hollow, and when I ran my fingers over her cheek, I discovered she was crying.

"Everything's going to be all right," I assured her.

"I'm too old for fairy tales," she informed me.

At Susan's suggestion we turned toward the plum orchard, the so-called sacred grove, and made our way toward the Roman love temple. More than half the plum trees were dead or dying, and each spring there were fewer blossoms, but still, the air was perfumed with their scent.

We came into the clearing where the round marble temple stood, and without speaking we mounted the steps and I swung open the big brass door. The sun was low on the horizon and shone in on a slant through the opening in the domed roof, illuminating a section of the erotic carvings on the lintels. Susan walked across the marble floor and stood before the naked statues of Venus and the big Roman male. The statues of pink marble were seated side by side on an uncarved slab of black stone, and though they were in a partial embrace, about to kiss, the view from the waist down was of full frontal nudity. The man had forgotten his fig leaf, and his penis was in an excited state. As I said, this was all pretty risque for 1906, and even today an erect penis in art is considered by some to be pornographic.

Anyway, it is possible for a woman to sit in the lap of this virile male and achieve penetration. In fact, in Roman times during the Saturnalia festival, virgins actually deflowered themselves in this way, using, I believe, the statue of Priapus, whose member is always at the ready.

You must keep in mind that these statues and this love temple were commissioned by Susan's great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope, and I believe that randiness runs in some families. Certainly Susan has inherited an as yet unidentified gene for an overactive libido from both sides of her family, who, by most accounts, couldn't seem to keep their pants up or their skirts down. I told you, too, that Susan and I engage in some interesting sexual practices in this love temple, though not the aforementioned Roman practice of statuary rape, if you'll pardon my pun. I should also tell you that the two statues are slightly larger than life, and consequently the Roman gentleman's equipment is perhaps slightly larger than mine, but not by so much as to make me jealous. Well, anyway, there we were in this pagan temple on a Good Friday, recently returned from church, and from a moment of truth at the gazebo and an emotional episode at the playhouse. And to be honest, this confluence of events left me with the uncomfortable feeling that this might not be the time or place for romance.

Susan, on the other hand, seemed more sure of what she wanted. She said, "Make love to me, John."

That request in that form means we are not going to playact, but are going to make love as husband and wife. This also means that Susan is feeling insecure, or perhaps melancholy.

So I took her in my arms, and we kissed and, still kissing, sat on the wide ledge at the base of the statues in unconscious imitation of their pose. We kicked off our shoes and, still kissing, removed our clothes, helping each other undress until we were naked. I lay down on my back on the cool marble, and Susan straddled me with her knees, then rose up and came down on me. She worked her pelvis up and down and rocked back and forth, her eyes closed, her mouth open, moaning softly.

I reached up and pulled her down to me and kissed her. She straightened her legs, and stretched her body out over mine. We embraced and continued to kiss as her hips rose and fell.

Susan's body went tense, then relaxed, and she continued to move her hips until she went rigid again, then went limp again. She did this three or four times until her breathing began to sound laboured, but she continued on until she had yet another orgasm. She might have gone on until she passed out, which actually happened once, but I let myself come, and this brought on her final climax. She lay with her head buried in my chest, her long red hair draped over my shoulders. I heard her whisper between deep breaths, "Thank you, John." It was pleasant lying there, Susan on top of me, our groins all warm and wet. I played with her hair, rubbed her back and buttocks, and we rubbed our feet together.

I could see from the open dome that the sunlight was fading outside, and in fact the temple was darker now. But directly above me I could see the marble statues still locked in their eternal embrace, and from this perspective, their expressions and their whole demeanour looked more lustful and heated, as if their nine decades of frustration were about to explode into an act of sexual frenzy.

We must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was dark in the temple and I was cold. Susan stirred, and I felt her warm lips on my neck. I said, "That's nice."

"Feel better?"

"Yes." I replied. "You?"

"Yes." She added, "I love you, John."

"I love you."

She got to her feet and said, "Stand up."

I stood and Susan took my shirt, put it on me and buttoned it, then put my tie on and tied it. Next came my shorts and my socks, then my trousers. She buckled my belt and zipped my fly. Having a woman undress me is very erotic, but only Susan has ever dressed me after sex and I find it a very loving and tender act. She put my shoes on and tied them, then brushed off my jacket and helped me into it. "There," she said as she straightened my hair, "you look like you just left church."

"Except my groin is sticky."

She smiled, and I looked at her standing in front of me stark naked. I said, "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

I tried to dress her, but I got the panties on backward and was having trouble with the bra fasteners. Susan said, "John, you used to undress me in the dark with one hand."

"This is different."

We finally got Susan into her clothes and walked hand in hand back to the house in the dark. I said to her, "You're right, you know. I mean your perceptive analysis of how I feel. I don't want to feel bored or restless, but I do." "Maybe," she replied, "you need a challenge. Perhaps I can think of something to challenge you."

"Good idea," I said, which turned out to be the stupidest thing I ever said.

CHAPTER 9

I skipped church on Holy Saturday, having had enough of the Reverend Mr Runnings and the Allards. Susan played hooky, too, and spent the morning cleaning her stables with two college boys home on vacation. I don't do stables, but I did stop by with a cooler of soft drinks. As I pulled the Bronco up to the stable, I was struck by the awful smell of horse manure and the sounds of laughter and groans.

Zanzibar and Yankee were tethered to a post outside, under the huge, spreading chestnut tree, nibbling grass and oblivious to the humans slaving on their behalf. I think horses should clean their own stables. I used to like horses. Now I hate them. I'm jealous.

On the same subject, Susan, who can be cold as Freon to men her own age who show an interest in her, is very friendly to young men. This I'm sure is partly maternal, as she is old enough to be the mother of college-age children and in fact is. It's the part that is not maternal that annoys me. Anyway, they all seemed to be having a grand time in there shovelling shit. I pulled the cooler out of the rear of the Bronco and set it down on a stone bench.

A pile of manure had risen on the cobbled service court in front of the stable, and this would find its way to the rose garden behind our house. Maybe that's why I don't stop and smell the roses.

I opened a bottle of apple juice and drank, my foot propped on the bench, trying to strike a real-man pose in case anybody came out of the stable. If I had tobacco and paper I would have rolled one. I waited, but the only thing coming out of the stable was laughter.

I surveyed the long, two-storey stable complex. The stables are built of brick with slate roofs in an English country style, more matching the guesthouse than the main house. I suppose there's no such thing as beaux-arts stables with Roman columns. The stables had been built at the same time as the house, when horses were a more reliable and dignified means of transportation than automobiles. There were thirty stalls for the riding horses, the carriage horses, and the draught horses, and a large carriage house that probably held two dozen horse-drawn conveyances, including sleds and estate equipment The second storey was part haymow and part living quarters for the forty or so men needed to maintain the animals, buildings, tack, and carriages. The carriage house had become the garage by the 1920s, and the coachmen, grooms, and such had become chauffeurs and mechanics.

Susan and I sometimes used the garage for the Jag, and George always parks his Lincoln there, as he is of the generation that believes in taking care of possessions. The gatehouse, guesthouse, and main house were built without garages, of course, because if one needed one's horse, carriage, or automobile, one just buzzed the carriage house. I have a buzzer marked CARRIAGE HOUSE in my kitchen, and I keep pushing it, but no one comes.

Anyway, the stables are on Stanhope land, which presents a problem if the land is sold. The obvious solution to this is to construct a smaller wooden stable on Susan's property. I mean, we don't live in the great house: why should the horses live in the great stable? But Susan fears emotional trauma to her animals if they are forced to step down in life, so she wants at least part of the original stable moved, brick by brick, slate by slate, and cobble by cobble to her land. She wants this done soon, before the tax people start identifying assets. Her father has graciously given his permission to move all or part of the structure to her ten acres, and Susan has picked a nice tree-shaded patch of land with a pond for her precious horsies. All that remains to be done is to engage the Herculean Task Stable Moving Company and a hundred slaves to complete the job. Susan says she'll split the cost with me. I have to look at that prenuptial agreement again.

I finished my apple juice and hooked my thumb in my belt, waiting for somebody to push a wheelbarrow full of faeces out the door. I found a piece of straw and stuck it between my teeth.

After a minute or so in this pose, I decided to stop being silly and just go in. But as I walked toward the main doors, a puff of hay flew out of the loft overhead and landed on me. It sounded as if they were having a hay fight. Good clean American fun. Pissed off beyond belief, I spun around, got into the Bronco, and slammed it into gear, Baking a tight U-turn in front of the main doors. I could hear Susan calling after me from the open loft as I drove right through the pile of manure in four-wheel drive.

That afternoon, after a rational discussion regarding my childishness, we put on our tennis whites and walked down to the courts to keep a tennis date. It was warm for April, and after a few volleys while we waited for the other couple, Susan took off her sweater and warm-up pants. I have to tell you, the woman looks exquisite in tennis clothes, and when she fishes around in her panties for the second ball, the men on the court lose their concentration for a minute or two.

Anyway, we volleyed for another ten minutes, and I was blasting balls all over the place, and Susan was telling me not to be hostile. Finally, she said, "Look, John, don't blow this match. Calm down."

"I'm calm."

"If we win, I'll grant you any sexual favour you wish."

"How about a roll in the hay?"

She laughed. "You got it."

We volleyed a bit longer, and I guess I did calm down a bit, because I was keeping the balls in the court. I was not, however, a happy man. It's often little things, like Susan's horsing around in the hay, that sets you off on a course that can be vengeful and destructive.

Anyway, our tennis partners, Jim and Sally Roosevelt, showed up. Jim is one of the Oyster Bay Roosevelts still living in the area. Roosevelts, Morgans, Vanderbilts, and such are sort of a local natural resource, self-renewable like pheasant and nearly as scarce. To have a Roosevelt or a pheasant on your property is an occasion of some pride; to have one or the other for dinner is, respectively, a social or culinary coup. Actually, Jim is just a regular guy with a famous name and a trust fund. More important, I can beat his pants off in tennis. Incidentally, we don't pronounce Roosevelt the way you've heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say Roozvelt, teeth clenched lockjaw style, two syllables, rhymes with "Lou's belt." Okay?

Sally Roosevelt was nee Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I'm certain that nearly all of Grace Lane's residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it. At about six P.M., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts. Jim said unnecessarily, "I think someone is looking for you." I excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court. "Hello, Mr Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?"

"You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?" No, I didn't actually say that. I said, "That's all right."

He extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, "I don't play tennis." "Neither do I," I replied.

He laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humour, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.

Bellarosa was dressed in grey slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not tres chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewellery, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.

"It's a nice day," said Mr Bellarosa with genuine delight. I could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I'll bet Mrs Bellarosa hadn't spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. "Unusually warm for this time of year," I agreed.

"Some place you got here," he said.

"Thank you," I replied.

"You been here long?"

"Three hundred years."

"What's that?"

"I mean my family. But my wife's family built this place in 1906."

"No kidding?"

"You can look it up."

"Yeah." He looked around. "Some place."

I regarded Mr Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, grey at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I'm six feet, so he was about average height. I'd say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere – court records, for instance.

He had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn't think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women find him attractive. Frank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. "Your guy – what's his name…?"

"George."

"Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn't interrupt your game."

Mr Bellarosa's tone told me he wasn't happy with George. I replied, "That's all right." George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbour. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr Bellarosa. I asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say hello."

"That's good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you."

"Oh, yeah? Why?"

"Well… that's the way it's done."

"Yeah? No one's stopped by yet."

"Now that's odd. Perhaps no one is sure you're there." This conversation was getting weird, so I said, "Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown."

"Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on." He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed. Bellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George's body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. "Here. I bought too much. You really don't have a vegetable garden?" "No." I looked at the plastic tray. "I guess I do now." He smiled. "Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don't know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?"

"Well… slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash -" "What?"

"Glacial… silty, pebbly in places – "

"All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables.

You'll thank me in August."

"I thank you in April."

"Yeah. Put that down. Not on the car."

I put the tray down on the ground.

Bellarosa pulled a clear plastic bag from the trunk, inside of which was a mass of purplish leaves.

"Here," he said. "This is radicchio. You know? Like lettuce."

I took the bag and examined the ragged leaves with polite interest. "Very nice."

"I grew it."

"You must have warmer weather over there."

Bellarosa laughed. "No, I grew it inside. You know, my place has this room – like a greenhouse… the real estate lady said it…"

"A conservatory."

"Yeah. Like a greenhouse, except it's part of the house. So I got that fixed up first thing in January. Every pane was broken, and the gas heater was gone. Cost me twenty thousand bucks, but I'm getting onions and lettuce already." "Very expensive onions and lettuce," I observed.

"Yeah. But what the hell."

I should tell you that Bellarosa's accent was definitely not Locust Valley, but neither was it pure Brooklyn. Accents being important around here, I've developed an ear for them, as have most people I know. I can usually tell which of the city's five boroughs a person is from, or which of the surrounding surburban counties. I can sometimes tell which prep school a person has gone to, or if he's gone to Yale as I have. Frank Bellarosa did not go to Yale, but occasionally there was something odd, almost prep school, in his accent if not his choice of words. But mostly I could hear the streets of Brooklyn in his voice. Against my better judgement, I asked, "Where did you live before Lattingtown?"

"Where? Oh, Williamsburg." He looked at me. "That's in Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn?"

"Not very well."

"Great place. Used to be a great place. Too many… foreigners now. I grew up in Williamsburg. My whole family is from there. My grandfather lived on Havemeyer Street when he came over."

I assumed Mr Bellarosa's grandfather came over from a foreign country, undoubtedly Italy, and I'm sure the old Germans and Irish of Williamsburg did not welcome him with hugs and schnitzels, this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europeans only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding of immigrants had it a little rougher; they had to buy or rent. I didn't think Mr Bellarosa was interested in any of these ironies, so I said, "Well, I do hope you find Long Island to your liking." "Yeah. I know Long Island. I went to boarding school out here." He didn't offer any more, so I didn't press it, though I wondered what boarding school Frank Bellarosa could possibly have attended. I thought that might be his way of saying reform school. I said, "Thanks again for the lettuce." "Eat it quick. Just picked. A little oil and vinegar."

I wondered if the horses would like it without oil and vinegar. "Sure will. Well

– "

"That your daughter?"

Bellarosa was looking over my shoulder, and I glanced back and saw Susan coming down the path. I turned back to Bellarosa.

"My wife."

"Yeah?" He watched Susan approaching. "I saw her riding a horse one day on my property."

"She sometimes rides horses."

He looked at me. "Hey, if she wants to ride around my place, it's okay. She probably rode there before I bought the place. I don't want any hard feelings. I got a couple hundred acres, and the horse shit is good for the soil. Right?" "It's excellent for roses."

Susan walked directly up to Frank Bellarosa and extended her hand. "I'm Susan Sutter. You must be our new neighbour."

Bellarosa hesitated a moment before taking her hand, and I guessed that men in his world did not shake hands with women. He said, "Frank Bellarosa." "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Bellarosa. John told me he met you at the nursery a few weeks ago."

"Yeah."

Bellarosa maintained good eye contact, though I did see his eyes drop to Susan's legs for half a second. I wasn't altogether pleased that Susan hadn't put on her warm-up pants and that she was presenting herself to a total stranger in a tennis skirt that barely covered her crotch.

Susan said to Bellarosa, "You must forgive us for not calling on you, but we weren't certain if you were settled in and receiving."

Bellarosa seemed to ponder this a moment. This receiving business must have been giving him problems. Susan, I should point out, slips into her Lady Stanhope role when she wants to cause certain people to be uncomfortable. I don't know if this is defensive or offensive.

Bellarosa did not seem uncomfortable, though he seemed a little more tentative with Susan than he had been with me. Maybe Susan's legs were distracting him. He said to her, "I was just telling your husband I saw you riding on my place once or twice. No problem."

I thought he was about to mention the scatological side benefits to himself, but he just smiled at me. I did not return the smile. This was indeed a horse shit day, I thought.

Susan said to Mr Bellarosa, That's very good of you. I should point out, however, that it is local custom here to allow for equestrian right of way. You may mark specific bridle paths if you wish. However, if the hunt is ever reinstated, the horses will follow the dogs, who are, in turn, following the scent. You'll be notified."

Frank Bellarosa looked at Susan for a long moment, and neither of them blinked. Bellarosa then surprised me by saying in a cool tone, "I guess there's a lot I don't understand yet, Mrs Sutter."

I thought I should change the subject to something he did understand, so I held up the plastic bag. "Susan, Mr Bellarosa grew this lettuce – radicchio, it's called – in Alhambra's conservatory."

Susan glanced at the bag and turned back to Bellarosa. She said, "Oh, did you have that repaired? That's very nice."

"Yeah. The place is coming along."

"And these seedlings…" I added, indicating the tray on the ground, "vegetables for our garden."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Susan said.

Bellarosa smiled at Susan. "Your husband told me you eat flowers."

"No, sir, I eat thorns. Thank you for stopping by."

Bellarosa ignored the implied brush-off and turned to me. "What's your place called? It's got a name, right?"

"Yes," I replied. "Stanhope Hall."

"What's that mean?"

"Well… it's named after Susan's great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope. He built it."

"Yeah. You said that. Am I supposed to name my place?"

"It has a name," I said.

"Yeah, I know that. The real estate lady told me. Alhambra. That's how I get my mail. There's no house number. You believe that? But should I give the place a new name or what?"

Susan replied, "You may, if you wish. Some people do. Others keep the original name. Do you have a name in mind?"

Frank Bellarosa thought a moment, then shook his head. "Nah. Alhambra's okay for now. Sounds Spanish though. I'll think about it."

If we can be of any help with a name," Susan said, "do let us know." "Thanks. You think I should put up a sign with the name of the place? I see signs on some of the places. You guys don't have a sign." "It's entirely up to you," I assured our new neighbour. "But if you change the name, notify the post office."

"Yeah. Sure."

Susan added – baitingly, I thought, "Some people just put their own names out front. But others, especially if they have well-known names, don't." Bellarosa looked at her and smiled. He said, "I don't think it would be a good idea to put my name out front, do you, Mrs Sutter?"

"No, I don't, Mr Bellarosa."

Now I was getting uncomfortable. "Well," I said, "we'd better get back to our guests."

Bellarosa hesitated a moment, then said, "I'm having a little Easter thing tomorrow. Some friends, a little family. Nothing fancy. Traditional Italian Easter foods." He smiled. "I went to Brooklyn to get capozella. Lamb's head. But we got the rest of the lamb, too. About two o'clock. Okay?" I wasn't sure I'd heard him right about the lamb's head. I replied, "I'm afraid we've got another Easter thing to go to."

"Yeah? Well, see if you can drop by for ten minutes and I'll show you the place.

Have a drink. Okay?" He looked at Susan.

She replied, "We will certainly try to join you. But if we can't, have a very joyous and blessed Easter."

"Thanks." Bellarosa shut the trunk and went to his car door. "You mind if I drive around a little?"

Susan said, "Not at all. That's a rather long car to try to turn on this lane, so go on up to the main house and turn in the circle."

I knew if I wanted to annoy Susan I should tell Mr Bellarosa that the old homestead was up for sale, but I figured we had enough to talk about for one day.

Bellarosa looked at us over the top of his car, and we looked back. It was a contest, or maybe the first skirmish in the clash of cultures, I thought. Susan and I were both raised never to be rude to social inferiors unless they presented themselves to you as equals. Then you could massacre them. But Mr Frank Bellarosa was not trying to put on any airs or ask for honorary gentry status. He was what he was and he didn't care enough about us to pretend he was something else.

I was reminded of my first impression of him, of a conqueror, curious about the effete society he had just trampled, maybe a little amused by the inhabitants, and certainly monumentally unimpressed by a culture that couldn't defend itself against people like Frank Bellarosa. This, I would learn later, was an accurate first impression and was, as I discovered from the man himself, part of the Italian psyche. But at that moment, I was just glad he was leaving. I knew, of course, I would see him again, if not to eat lamb's head together on Easter, then some other time in the near future. But I did not know, nor could I have possibly guessed, to what extent we three would bring ruin and disaster on one another.

Bellarosa smiled at us, and I was struck again by that gentle mouth. He said bluntly, "I'm going to be a good neighbour. Don't worry. We'll get along." He ducked into his car and drove off up the sun-dappled lane. I handed Susan the bag of lettuce. "Oil and vinegar." I added, "You were a bit snooty."

"Me? How about you?" She asked, "Well, do you want to drop by for a quick lamb's ear or something?"

"I think not."

She stayed silent a moment, then said, "It just might be interesting."

I said, "Susan, you're strange."

She replied in a husky voice, "Yeah? Ya think so?" She laughed and turned back toward the tennis courts. I left the tray of seedlings on the ground and followed. "Do you think I should plant vegetables this year?" "You'd better." She laughed again. "This is bizarre."

The word was scary not bizarre, and we both knew that. Not scary in the physical sense perhaps; we weren't going to get rubbed out for not showing up at Bellarosa's house or not planting his seedlings or even for being a little curt with him. But scary in the sense that the man had the power to have people who annoyed him rubbed out. And despite Susan's aloofness and what I hoped was my cool indifference toward the man, you did not deal with Frank the Bishop Bellarosa in the same way you dealt with the Remsens, the Eltons, or the DePauws. And the reason for that was not too subtle; Frank Bellarosa was a killer.

Susan said, "Maybe 'Casa Bellarosa'."

"What?"

"His place. Maybe I'll get a nice sign made as a housewarming gift. Something in mother-of-pearl. Casa Bellarosa."

I didn't reply to what I thought was nearly an ethnic slur. Susan pulled a leaf of radicchio from the plastic bag and munched on it. "A little bitter. It does need some oil or something. But very fresh. Want some?" "No, thank you."

"Should we have introduced Mr Bellarosa to the Roosevelts? You know, like, "Jim and Sally, may I present our newest friend and neighbour, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa?" Or would one say "don Bellarosa", to impress the Roosevelts?" "Don't be inane." I asked Susan, "What did you think of him?" She replied without hesitation, "He has a certain primitive charm and a self-assurance even in the face of my well-bred arrogance." She paused, then said, "He's rather better looking than I'd imagined."

"I don't think he's good-looking." I added, "And he dresses funny."

"So do half the tweedbags around here."

We walked back onto the court, where Jim and Sally were volleying. I said 'Sorry'. You should know that interrupting a tennis game for anything short of a death on the court is in bad taste.

Jim responded, "Susan said that might be your new neighbour."

"It was." I picked up my racket and took the court. "Where were we?"

Sally asked, "Frank Bellarosa?"

"I think it was my serve," I said.

Susan said to Sally, "We just call him Bishop."

Three of us thought that was funny. I repeated, "My serve, two-love." Susan showed the Roosevelts the bag of radicchio and they all examined it as though it were Martian plant life or something.

"It's getting dark," I said.

"What did he want?" Jim asked Susan.

Susan answered, "He wants us to eat this and plant a vegetable garden."

Sally giggled.

Susan continued, "And he wants to know if he's supposed to put a sign out front that says Alhambra. And," Susan added, "he invited us over for Easter dinner." "Oh, no!" Sally squealed.

"Lamb's head!" Susan exclaimed.

"Oh, for God's sake," I said. I've never seen a game delayed for conversation on the court except once at the Southampton Tennis Club when a jealous husband tried to brain the pro with his Dunlop Blue Max, but everyone got back to business as soon as the husband and the pro disappeared around the clubhouse. I said, "My muscles are tightening. That's the game." I gathered my things and walked off the court. The other three followed, still talking, and I led the way back to the house.

It was still warm enough to sit in the garden, and Susan brought out a bottle of old port. For hors d'oeuvres there was cheese and crackers, garnished with radicchio, which even I found amusing.

I drank and watched the sun go down, smelled the fresh horse manure in the rose garden, and tried to listen to the birds, but Susan, Sally, and Jim were chattering on about Frank Bellarosa, and I heard Susan using the words 'deliciously sinister', 'interestingly primitive', and even 'intriguing'. The man is about as intriguing as a barrel of cement. But women see different things in men than men see in men. Sally was certainly intrigued by Susan's descriptions. Jim, too, seemed absorbed in the subject. If you're interested in the pecking order on my terrace, the Stanhope and the Grace sitting across from me are considered old money by most American standards, because there wasn't much American capital around until only about a hundred years ago. But the Roosevelt sitting beside me would think of the Graces and Stanhopes as new money and too much of it. The Roosevelts were never filthy rich, but they go back to the beginning of the New World and they have a respected name and are associated with public service to their country in war and peace, unlike at least one Stanhope I could name. I told you about the Sutters, but you should know that my mother is a Whitman, a direct descendant of Long Island's most illustrious poet, Walt Whitman. Thus, in the pecking order, Jim and I are peers, and our wives, while rich, pretty, and thin, are a step down the social ladder. Get it? It doesn't matter. What matters now is where Frank Bellarosa fits.

As I listened to Susan and the Roosevelts talk, I realized they had a different slant on Frank Bellarosa than I did. I was concerned about Mr Bellarosa's legal transgressions against society, such as murder, racketeering, extortion, and little things like that. But Susan, Sally, and even Jim discussed larger issues such as Mr Bellarosa's shiny black car, shiny white shoes, and his major crime, which was the purchase of Alhambra. Susan, I think, acts and speaks differently when she's around people like Sally Grace.

I was also struck by the fact that these three found some entertainment value in Mr Frank Bellarosa. They spoke of him as if he were a gorilla in a cage and they were spectators. I almost envied them their supreme overconfidence, their assurance that they were not part of life's circus, but were ticket holders with box seats opposite the centre ring. This aloofness, I knew, was bred into Sally's and Susan's bones from childhood, and with Jim, it just flowed naturally in his blue blood. I suppose I can be aloof, too. But everyone in my family worked, and you can only be so aloof when you have to earn a living. Listening to Susan, I wanted to remind her that she and I were not ticket holders at this particular event; we were part of the entertainment, we were inside the cage with the gorilla, and the thrills and chills were going to be more than vicarious.

At my suggestion, the subject turned to the boating season. The Roosevelts stayed until eight, then left.

I remarked to Susan, "I don't see anything amusing or interesting about Bellarosa."

"You have to keep an open mind," she said, and poured herself another port.

"He is a criminal," I said tersely.

She replied just as tersely, "If you have proof of that, Counsellor, you'd better call the DA."

Which reminded me of the underlying problem: If society couldn't get rid of Frank Bellarosa, how was I supposed to do it? This breakdown of the law was sapping everyone's morale – even Susan was commenting on it now, and Lester Remsen was convinced the rules were out the window. I wasn't so sure yet. I said to Susan, "You know what I'm talking about. Bellarosa is a reputed Mafia don." She finished her port, let out a deep breath, and said, "Look, John, it's been a long day, and I'm tired."

Indeed it had been a long day, and I, too, felt physically and emotionally drained. I remarked, unwisely, "Hay fights take a lot out of a person." "Cut it out." She stood and moved toward the house.

"Did we beat the Roosevelts or not?" I asked. "Do I get my sexual favour?"

She hesitated. "Sure. Would you like me to go fuck myself?"

Actually, yes.

She opened the French door that led into the study. "I'm certain you recall that we are due at the DePauws at nine for late supper. What one might call an Easter thing. Please be ready on time." Susan went into the house. I poured myself another port. No, I did not recall. What was more, I didn't give a damn. It occurred to me that if certain people found Frank Bellarosa not bad looking, 'deliciously sinister', 'interestingly primitive', 'intriguing', and worth an hour's conversation, then maybe those same people found me nice and dull and predictable.

That, coupled with the hay fight earlier in the afternoon, got me wondering if Susan was getting a bit restless herself.

I stood, took the bottle of port, and walked out of the garden and into the dark. I kept walking until I found myself some time later at the hedge maze. A bit under the influence by now, I stumbled into the maze, whose paths were choked with untrimmed branches. I wandered around until I was sure I was completely lost, then sprawled out on the ground, finished the port, and fell asleep under the stars. Screw the DePauws.

CHAPTER 10

I could hear birds singing close by, and I opened my eyes but could see nothing. I sat up quickly in disoriented panic. I saw now that I was engulfed in a mist, and I thought for a moment that I had died and gone to heaven. But then I burped up some port and I knew I was alive, though not well. By stages I recalled where I was and how I'd gotten there. I didn't like any of the recollections, so I pushed them out of my mind.

Overhead, the first streaks of dawn lit up a purple and crimson sky. My head felt awful, I was cold, and my muscles were stiff as cardboard. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. It was Easter Sunday, and John Sutter had indeed risen. I stood slowly and noticed the bottle of port on the ground and recalled using it as a pillow. I picked it up and took the final swallow from it to freshen my mouth. "Ugh…" I brushed off my warm-up suit and zipped the jacket against the chill. Middle-aged men, even those in good shape, should not wallow around on the cold ground all night with a snoot full of booze. It's not healthy or dignified. "Oh… my neck…" I coughed, stretched, sneezed, and performed other morning functions. Everything seemed to be working except my mind, which couldn't grasp the enormity of what I'd done.

I took a few tentative steps, felt all right, and began pushing aside the branches of the hedge maze. I tried following the trail of footprints and broken twigs of the night before, but tracking is not one of my outdoor skills, and I was soon lost. Actually, I started out lost. Now I was missing in action. The sky was getting lighter, and I could make out east from west. The exit from the maze was on the eastern edge of the hedges, and moved generally that way whenever I could, but I found myself crossing my path again and again. Whoever laid out this labyrinth was some kind of sadistic genius. A full half hour after I'd begun, I broke out onto the lawn and saw the sun rising above the distant gazebo.

I sat on a stone bench at the entrance to the maze and forced myself to think. Not only had I walked out on Susan and missed a social engagement, but I had also missed sunrise services at St Mark's, and Susan and the Allards were probably frantic with worry by now. Well, maybe Susan and Ethel were not frantic, but George would be worried and the women, concerned. I wondered if Susan had bravely gone to the DePauws with regrets from her husband, or had she called the police and stayed by the phone all night? I guess what I was wondering was if anyone cared if I was dead or alive. As I was brooding over this, I heard the sound of hoofs on the damp earth. I looked up to see a horse and rider approaching out of the sun. I stood and squinted into the sunlight.

Susan reined up on Zanzibar about twenty feet from where I stood. Neither Susan nor I spoke, but the stupid horse snorted, and the snort sounded contemptuous, which set me off, illogical as that may seem. I thought I would be filled with guilt and remorse when I saw Susan, but strangely enough, I still didn't care. I asked, "Were you looking for me, or just out riding?"

It must have been my tone of voice that kept her from a smart-aleck reply. She said, "I was looking for you."

"Well, now that you've found me, you can leave. I want to be alone." "All right." She began reining Zanzibar around and asked over her shoulder, "Will you come to eleven-o'clock service with us?"

"If I do, I'll drive my own car to church."

"All right. I'll see you later." She rode off, and Zanzibar broke wind. If I'd had my shotgun, I would have filled his ass with buckshot. Well, I thought, that was easy. I felt good. I began walking, loosening my muscles, then I jogged for a while, sucking in the cool morning air. What a beautiful dawn it was, and what a beautiful thing it was to be up with the sun and running through the ground mist, getting high on beta blockers and endorphins or something. I spent an hour cavorting, I guess you'd call it, gambolling about the acreage, with no goal or reason except that it felt good. I climbed a big linden tree at the rear edge of the property that overlooks The Creek Country Club. What a magnificent view. I stayed in the tree awhile, reliving this exquisite pleasure of childhood. With great reluctance I got down from the tree, then began jogging again.

At about what I guessed was nine A.M., I was physically exhausted but as mentally alert as I'd been in a long time. I didn't even have a hangover. I pushed myself toward the line of white pine that separated the Stanhope property from Alhambra, sweat pouring from my body and carrying the toxins out with it. I ran through Alhambra's overgrown horse pasture, my heart pounding and my legs wanting to buckle and drop me to the earth. But I went on through the cherry grove and reached the classical garden where Susan and I had enacted our sexual drama.

I collapsed on a marble bench and looked around. The imposing statue of Neptune still stood at the end of the mosaic reflecting pool, but there was now a bronze trident in his clenched fist. "Look at that…" I saw, too, that the four fish sculptures were spouting water from their mouths and the water was collecting in a giant marble seashell, then spilling over into the newly cleaned reflecting pool. "I'll be damned…" I stood and staggered over to the fountain, which had not worked in over twenty years. I dropped to my knees and washed my face in the seashell, then lapped up the cold water. "Ah… nice going, Frank."

I gargled a mouthful of water and spit it up in a plume, in imitation of the stone fish. "Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle."

I heard a noise and turned. Not thirty feet away, on the path that led from the house, stood a woman in a flowery dress and pink hat, with a white shawl over her shoulders. She saw me and stopped dead in her tracks. I could imagine the picture I presented, slobbering around the fountain with a filthy warm-up suit and tangled hair. I spat out a mouthful of water and said, "Hello." She turned and began walking quickly away, then looked back to see what I was up to. She was a woman in her mid-forties, full-figured, with blond hair that, even at this distance, looked bleached. Her makeup was not subtle, and I thought the purple eye shadow and hot-pink lip gloss might have been leftover Easter-egg dyes. Even in her Easter frock and bonnet she looked a little cheap and brassy. But she was well put together. I'm not a tit man, and my preference is for lithe, well-scrubbed, all-American types, like Susan. But having spent the morning alternating between atavistic and adolescent behaviour, I was in the right mood to find something crudely sexual in this woman's primitive paint job, with her big breasts and buttocks. In some vague way she reminded me of the Venus statue in the love temple.

She was still glancing over her shoulder as she put distance between us. I thought I should identify myself so she wouldn't be frightened, but if she was part of the Bellarosa clan, it might be best if we didn't meet under these circumstances. I was about to stand and walk away, which is what an uninteresting attorney and gentleman would have done. But, recalling my recent success with Susan, I got on all fours and growled.

The woman broke into a run, losing her high heels. I stood and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. This was fun. It did occur to me that my behaviour was not in the normal range, but who am I to make psychiatric evaluations? As I walked along the edge of the reflecting pool contemplating my next move, I noticed something else new. At the far end of the long, narrow pool was a white statue. As I drew closer, I saw that it was one of those cheap plaster saints with the sky-blue niches that you see on Italians' lawns, usually in conjunction with a pink flamingo or two.

I saw now that it was a statue of Mary, her arms cradling the infant Jesus. I found the juxtaposition of this Christian icon across the pool from the pagan god rather curious. Here was this loving woman enveloping her child, and in the same setting staring at her, as it were, was this half-naked, virile god with upraised trident, the antithesis of the Judaeo-Christian God of love. I was reminded of the first time I was in Rome and being surprised at how the two dominant strands of Italian culture – pagan and Christian – coexisted in art with no apparent contradictions. The tour guides seemed to have no theological or aesthetic problems with mixed motifs: for instance, a frieze of nubile nymphs and randy cupids adorning the same room that held a statue of La Vergine. The Italians, I decided then, were themselves pagan and Christian, like their art, both cruel and gentle, Roman and Catholic. It was as if the wrong religion had been grafted onto a country and a people who by temperament made good pagans and lousy Christians.

It occurred to me, too, that the same Frank Bellarosa who restored the trident to Neptune, who knew what that clenched fist needed, was also the Frank Bellarosa who felt a need to balance his world with this symbol of love and hope. This was a man who covered all his bases. Interesting. I heard a dog barking from the direction of the mansion, and I decided to wonder about all of this while moving rapidly away from the don's hit men. I may have been crazy, but I wasn't stupid.

I headed in the direction of Stanhope Hall, moving as fast as I could, considering I hadn't had anything more substantial to eat than radicchio and cheese since Saturday's lunch. The barking dogs, two of them now, were closer. I put on a burst of speed, crossing the tree line at full tilt. I didn't slow up, however, figuring the dogs and the hit men, while not mounted gentry, would still surely cross into Stanhope land in hot pursuit.

I saw the shallow pond near where Susan intended to move her stable and charged into it, half wading, half walking on water, until I reached the other side. What I lacked in stalking skills, I made up for in escape and evasion techniques.

I kept running and I could hear the dogs yapping around the pond where they'd lost the scent. I had only assumed that the dogs were accompanied by men, but I wasn't certain until now when I heard the discharge of a shotgun behind me. My legs responded instinctively and began moving faster than my heart and lungs could take. I ran out of glucose, adrenalin, endorphins, and all that and collapsed on the ground. I lay perfectly still and listened. After a few minutes, I stood slowly and began walking softly through the brush. I intersected an old gravel road that led to the service gate on Grace Lane. I followed the road until I saw the guesthouse through newly budded cherry trees. I was pretty sure the shotgun boys wouldn't penetrate this far into the Stanhope estate, so I took my time getting to the house. As someone once said, there's nothing quite so satisfying as being shot at and missed. I felt terrific, on top of the world. My only regret was that I couldn't tell this story to anyone. What I needed, I realized, were friends who would appreciate this escapade. I would have told Susan, but she wasn't my friend anymore.

I came into the house through the rose garden and saw by the clock in the study that I had apparently misjudged the time. It was past eleven, and Susan was gone. Again, I discovered that I didn't care. Finding out that you didn't care about things you used to care about was all well and good, but the next step was trying to find out what you did care about.

I went into the kitchen and saw a note on the table. It read: Please remember to be at your aunt's at three. I crumpled up the note. Screw Aunt Cornelia. I opened the refrigerator and grazed awhile, stuffing my mouth with whatever struck my fancy, leaving a mess of opened containers, wrappings, and half-eaten fruit. I grabbed a handful of blueberries, slammed the door, and went upstairs. Primitive is one thing, but a hot shower is something else. I stripped, showered, and ate blueberries, but I didn't shave. I dressed casually in jeans, sweatshirt, and loafers without socks and got out of the house before Susan returned.

I jumped into my Bronco and drove onto the old, overgrown path that once connected the guesthouse to the service road and, subsequently, the service gate. These old estates had not only service entrances to the main house, but servants' stairways so that ladies and gentlemen never met staff on the stairs, and in addition, there was a system of roads or narrow tracks for deliveries, work vehicles, and such. These places were sort of forerunners to Disneyland, where armies of workers ran around on hidden roads, through tunnels and back doors, attending to every need, making meals appear like magic, cleaning rooms, and making gardens grow, always out of sight, like little elves. Anyway, I crossed the service road, drove along a footpath to the pond, and got out of the Bronco. I examined the footprints left in the ground, saw the paw marks at the muddy edge of the water, and found an eight-gauge shotgun cartridge that I put in my pocket. Satisfied that I hadn't been hallucinating on beta blockers, I got back into the Bronco and proceeded down the road toward the service gate in order to avoid Susan and the Allards if they were coming home from church. The service gate, which is never used anymore, was padlocked, but like a good maintenance man, I had a ring of keys in the Bronco for every keyhole on the Stanhope estate. I opened the padlock and gates and drove out onto Grace Lane a few hundred yards from the main gate. I headed north to avoid the Jag, which would be coming up from Locust Valley, meanwhile trying to figure out where to go. Errant husbands should have a destination, but few of them do, and they usually wander around in their cars, not wanting to go someplace where people will ask them how the missus is. I passed the gate of Alhambra on my left and noticed two gentlemen in black suits posted at the entranceway.

I guess I was still royally ticked off about the events of the previous day, though I knew if I were to verbalize my complaints to a friend, he or she would not fully comprehend how the hayloft incident or the Bellarosa incident could have put me in high dudgeon. People never do. Of course I would say, "There's more to it." And there was, but most of that was in my head, unconnected to the physical world, and no one but a shrink would sit still for my monologue on all the injustices of life and marriage.

Anyway, I drove around a while and wound up in Bayville, which is sort of a blue-collar town sitting on prime Long Island Sound real estate. This place is ripe for gentrification, but I think there's a village ordinance against BMWs and health food stores.

The main industries of the small village of Bayville are fishing, boatyards, nautical stores, and the dispensing of alcohol. You wouldn't expect to find so many gin mills in so small a place, but it's a matter of supply and demand. Some of the places are rough, some rougher, and the roughest is a place called The Rusty Hawsehole. A hawsehole, if you care, is the hole in the bow of a ship through which the anchor cable passes. I think the bars and restaurants on Long Island are scraping the bottom of the bilge for unused nautical names, but this place looked like a rusty hawsehole, and it was open for Easter services. I parked the Bronco in the gravel lot between a pickup truck and four motorcycles and went inside.

A waterfront gin mill at night has a degree of local colour, exuberance, and je ne sais quoi. But on a Sunday afternoon, Easter Sunday at that, The Rusty Hawsehole was as depressing as the anteroom to a gas chamber. I found a stool at the bar and ordered a draught beer. The place was done up in standard nautical motif, but I wouldn't outfit a garbage scow from the junk on the walls and ceilings. I noticed that my fellow celebrants included three men and a woman in interesting black leather motorcycle attire, a few old salts whose skin had that odd combination of sun weathering and alcohol pickling, and four young men in jeans and T-shirts playing video games and alternating between catatonia and St Vitus' dance. I don't think there was a full set of teeth in the house. I was aware that the dark corners and booths held more of the damned. I bought some bar snacks, the kind of stuff that should have warning labels, and munched away. The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club is a mile or so down the road from here, and in the summer the nautical gentry will visit places like The Rusty Hawsehole after a day of sailing. When one is safely back at one's country club, one will casually mention the visit, thus suggesting that one is a real man. But here I was in off-season, sipping suds and eating prole food, watching the blue haze of cigarette smoke float past the bar lights. I ordered another beer and six of those beef jerky sticks for dessert. Just when it seemed that no one was interested in me or offended by my presence, one of the leather gentlemen at the bend in the bar inquired, "You live around here?" You have to understand that even in jeans and sweatshirt, unshaven, and with a Bronco outside, John Whitman Sutter was not going to pass for one of the boys, especially after I opened my preppie mouth. You understand, too, that there was deeper meaning in that question. I replied, "Lattingtown." "La-di-da," he responded musically.

I'm honestly glad there is no class animosity in this country, for if there were, the leather gentleman would have been rude. He asked, "You lost or what?" "I must be if I'm in this place."

Everyone thought that was funny. Humour goes a long way in bridging the gap between men of culture and cretins.

Leather said, "Your old lady kick you out or what?"

"No, actually she's in St Francis Hospital in a coma. Hit-and-run. Doesn't look good. The kids are with my aunt."

"Oh, hey, sorry." Leather ordered me a beer.

I smiled sadly at him and went back to my beef jerky sticks. They're actually not bad, and if you chew them with a mouthful of bar nuts, it forms this pasty mass that absorbs beer. You swallow the whole wad. I learned that in New Haven. That's the way we say Yale. New Haven. It doesn't sound so snooty. I was due at Aunt Cornelia's for cocktails at three, as the note said. It was sort of a family reunion that we do every Easter at Aunt Cornelia's home, which is in Locust Valley, about a fifteen-minute drive from here. It was now a few minutes to two. Aunt Cornelia is my mother's sister, and she is the aunt, you may recall, who has some theories regarding red hair. Wait until she sees her favourite nephew, I thought, staggering in without tie or jacket, unshaved, and smelling of beer and bar nuts.

Susan, to be fair, is good with my family. Not close, just good. Her family are few in number, not close to one another, and scattered far and wide. Perfect in-laws.

Anyway, as I was contemplating another hour in this hole, a woman took the empty stool beside me. She must have come from the dark recesses, because the front door hadn't opened. I glanced at her and she gave me a big smile. I looked in the bar mirror, and our eyes met. She smiled again. Friendly sort. She was about thirty but could have passed for forty. She was divorced and was currently living with a man who beat her. She worked as a waitress somewhere, and her mother took care of her kids. She had a few health problems, should have hated men, but didn't, played the Lotto, and refused to accept the fact that life was not going to get any better. She didn't say any of this, she didn't say anything, in fact. But the sort of people you find in The Rusty Hawsehole are like those fill-in-the-adjective games. You wonder sometimes how a fabulously wealthy nation can create a white underclass. Or maybe it's just that some people are born losers, and in the year 3000 in a colony on Mars, there will be a Rusty Hawsehole whose clientele will have bad teeth, tattoos, and leather space suits, and they will tell each other their life stories and complain about bad breaks and people screwing them. I heard two shoes hit the floor. "My feet are killing me."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Oh, jeez, I worked all morning. Never even got to Mass."

"Where do you work?"

"Stardust Diner in Glen Cove. You know the place?"

"Sure do."

"I never saw you there."

And you never will. "Buy you a drink?"

"Sure. Mimosa. Hate to drink before six. But I need one." I motioned to the bartender. "Mimosa." I turned to my companion. "You want a beef jerky?"

"No, thanks."

"My name's John."

"Sally."

"Not Sally Grace?"

"No, Sally Ann."

"Pleased to meet you," I said.

Her mimosa came and we touched glasses. We chatted for a few minutes before she asked, "What are you doing in a place like this?"

"I think that's my line."

She laughed. "No, really."

I suppose I was flattered by the question, my ego stroked by the knowledge that no one in that bar thought I belonged there even before they caught the accent. Conversely, I suppose, if any of these people were in The Creek, even in tweeds, I'd ask the same question of them. I replied to Sally, "I'm divorced, lonely, and looking for love in all the wrong places."

She giggled. "You're crazy."

"And my clubs are closed today, my yacht is in dry dock, and my ex-wife took the kids to Acapulco. I have my choice of going to a Mafia don's party, my aunt Cornelia's house, or here."

"So you came here?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"No. I'd go to the Mafia don's party."

"That's interesting." I asked, "Are you by any chance a Roosevelt?" Roozvelt.

She laughed again. "Sure. Are you an Astor?"

"No. I'm a Whitman. You know Walt Whitman, the poet?"

"Sure. Leaves of Grass. I read it in school."

"God bless America."

"He wrote that, too?"

"Possibly."

"You're related to Walt Whitman?"

"Sort of."

"Are you a poet?"

"I try."

"Are you rich?"

"I was. Lost it all on Lotto tickets."

"God, how many did you buy?"

"All of them."

She laughed yet again. I was on. I swung my stool toward Sally. You could tell she had been attractive once, but the years, as they say, had not been kind. Still, she had a nice smile and a good laugh, all her teeth, and I'm sure a big heart. I could see she liked me and with a little encouragement would have loved me. A lot of my schoolmates were into fucking the poor, but I never did. Actually, I take that back. Around here, the local custom is that Wednesday night is maid's night out, and all the young bars on the Gold Coast were, and still are, I guess, filled with delicious Irish and Scottish girls over here on work visas. But that's another story. The point is, it's been a long time since I've been tete-a-tete with a working girl in a bar, and I wasn't quite sure how to act with Sally Ann. But I believe I should always be myself. Some people like twits. And besides, I was doing better with Sally Ann than with Sally Grace. And now, as of sunrise, I had the power. We chatted awhile longer, and she was giggling into her third mimosa, and the leather crew were starting to get suspicious about the wife-in-the-coma story.

I caught a glimpse of the bar clock, which informed me that it was Miller time and three P.M. Given the choice between taking Sally Ann back to her place or going to Aunt Cornelia's, I'd rather do neither. "Well, I should go." "Oh… you in a hurry?"

"I'm afraid I am. I have to pick up the Earl of Sussex at the train station and get over to Aunt Cornelia's."

"Seriously…"

"Can I have your number?"

She demurred for half a second, then smiled coyly. "I guess."

"Do you have a card?"

"Uh… let me see…" She rummaged through her bag and found her short stub of a waitress pencil. "You want it on a card?"

"A napkin will do." I pushed a dry one toward her, and she wrote her name and number on it. She said, "I live here in Bayville. I can see the water from my place."

"I envy you." I put the napkin in my pocket with the shotgun shell. I might start a scrapbook. I said, "I'll call you." I slid off the bar stool. "I'm on nights for the rest of the month. Five to midnight. I sleep when I can. So try anytime. Don't worry about waking me. I have an answering machine anyway."

"Got it. See you." I left my change on the bar and exited The Rusty Hawsehole into the bright sunlight. There must be some place in this world for me, but I didn't think The Rusty Hawsehole was going to make the short list. I climbed into my Bronco. I had my choice now of don Bellarosa's or Aunt Cornelia's. I headed south along Shore Road, hoping, I guess, for some sort of divine intervention, like brake failure.

Anyway, I found myself on Grace Lane and passed Stanhope Hall, whose gates were closed. The Allards, I suppose, were at their daughter's house, and Susan was already at my aunt's or, more interestingly, at Frank's house, eating sheep's nose and putting out a contract on me.

I continued on and reached the beginning of the distinctive brick-and-stucco wall of Alhambra. I slowed down, then pulled off onto the shoulder opposite Alhambra's open gates. The two men in black suits were still there and they stared at me. Behind them, at the gatehouse, which was built into and part of the estate wall, was the Easter bunny. He was a rather large bunny, about six feet tall, not counting ears, and he held a big Easter basket, which I suspected was filled with coloured hand grenades.

I turned my attention back to the bunny's two helpers, who were still eyeing me. I had no doubt that one or both of these men – don Bellarosa's soldiers – had been pursuing me that morning.

Alhambra's main entranceway, unlike Stanhope's, is a straight drive to the main house, which you can see perfectly framed by the wrought-iron gates and pillars. The drive itself is paved with cobbles instead of gravel, and it is lined with stately poplars. On the drive now, stretching all the way to the house, were automobiles mostly of the long, black variety, and it occurred to me that these people with their black cars and black clothes were ready for a funeral at a moment's notice.

Looking at the scene across the street, I suspected that Frank Bellarosa knew how to throw a party. And I had the feeling that he did so in a manner that was in unconscious imitation of a Gatsby party, with everything a guest could want except the host, who watched his party from a distance. In some bizarre way, Bellarosa's ostentatious Easter was a case of history repeating itself, according to the stories that are told of millionaires in the 1920s trying to outdo one another in bad taste. Otto Kahn, for instance, one of the richest men in the country, if not the world, used to hold Easter egg hunts on the six hundred acres surrounding his 125-room mansion in Woodbury. Guests included socialites and millionaires as well as down-and-out actors, writers, musicians, and Ziegfeld girls. To make the hunt interesting, each colourfully painted egg contained a one-thousand-dollar bill. This was a popular event and an original way to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. I know in my heart that I would not have gone to Kahn's estate for the thousand-dollar bills – about a year's salary for some people in the 1920s – but I might have been tempted by the Ziegfeld girls.

Similarly, while sheep's head didn't make my mouth water, curiosity about Frank Bellarosa, his family, and extended 'family' was getting the better of me. While I was weighing the pros and cons of passing through those gates, I noticed that one of the cons, obviously tired of keeping an eye on me, was motioning me to move on. As I am a shareholder in Grace Lane and was not interfering with Mr Bellarosa's party in any way, I rolled down my window and gave the man what is sometimes known as the Italian salute.

The man, apparently overjoyed at my familiarity with Italian customs, returned my salute energetically with both hands.

About this time, a limousine with dark windows came up beside me, then turned left into the gates and stopped. The windows went down, and one of the guards checked the passengers while the big bunny handed out goodies from his basket. I heard a sharp tap on my passenger-side window and turned quickly. A man's face peered through the window, and he was motioning me to roll it down. I hesitated, then reached over and cranked down the window. "Yeah?" I said in my best tough guy voice. "Whaddaya want?" I felt my heart speed up. The man pushed his head through the window and held out one of those badge cases with an ID photo in front of my face, then pushed the face to match through the window. "Special Agent Mancuso," he said. "Federal Bureau of Investigation." "Oh…" I took a deep breath. This was really too much, I thought. Unreal. Right here on Grace Lane. Mafia, six-foot Easter bunnies, errant husbands, and now this guy from the FBI. "What can I do for you?"

"You are John Sutter, correct?"

"If you're the FBI, then I'm John Sutter." I assumed they'd run my licence plate through Albany in the last few minutes, or perhaps months ago when Bellarosa had moved in.

"You probably know why we're here, sir."

A few sarcastic replies passed through my mind, but I answered, "I probably do." "Of course you have every right to park here, and we have no authority to ask you to move."

That's right," I informed him. "This street is private property. My property." "Yes, sir." Mancuso had folded his arms on the windowsill of my Bronco, and his chin was resting on his forearm, his head tilted as though he were an old friend just chatting. He was a man of about fifty, with incredibly large white teeth, like a row of Chiclets. His skin was sallow, and his eyes and cheeks were sunken as if he weren't getting enough to eat. And he had gone bald in a bad way, with a bushy fringe and a tuft of curly hair left on his peak like a circus clown. I added, "I'm not even sure you have a right to be here." Mr Mancuso winced as if I'd offended him, or maybe he smelled the beer nuts and beef jerky. "Well," he said, "I'm a lawyer and you're a lawyer and we could debate that intelligently some other time."

I didn't know why I was being aggressive with the guy. Maybe I was still a little shook up about how he'd rapped on my window, and aggression was my response. Or maybe I was still in my primitive mode. Anyway, I realized I sounded as if I were a mouthpiece for the don. I calmed down a bit and said, "So?"

"Well, you see, we're taking pictures and your vehicle is in our line of sight."

"Pictures of what?"

"You know."

He didn't offer and I didn't ask from where he or they were taking pictures, but it could only have been from the DePauw house, which sits about a hundred yards off Grace Lane on a rise, directly, as I said, across from Alhambra's gates. I found it interesting, but certainly understandable, that the DePauws, who are 'Support your local police state' types, would join the forces of good against the forces of evil. Allen DePauw would, I'm sure, let the Feds set up a machine gun nest and supply the ammunition. Grace Lane was going through some changes. I looked up at the DePauws' big clapboard colonial, then turned toward Alhambra's gate. I supposed that as the cars swung into the drive, the FBI was photographing the licence plates with a telephoto lens and probably even getting nice shots of the guests as they got out of their cars. I realized that I was not actually blocking the line of sight between the DePauws' house and the gates, and I thought there was more to this. I said, "I was about to leave anyway."

"Thank you." Mancuso made no move to disengage himself from my vehicle. He said, "I guess you're stopped here because you're curious."

"Actually, I was invited."

"Were you?" He seemed surprised, then not so surprised. He nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if you ever want to talk to us" – he produced a business card and handed it to me – "give me a call."

"About what?"

"Anything. You going in there?"

"No." I put the card in my pocket with the shotgun shell and cocktail napkin.

Maybe a display case would be better.

"It's okay if you want to go in."

"Thanks, Mr Mancuso."

He flashed his pearly whites. "I mean, we understand your situation. Being neighbours and all."

"You don't know the half of it." I glanced back at Alhambra's gates and saw the two men and the Easter bunny talking amongst themselves and looking at us. On a day when even the rich people that I knew couldn't get help with dinner (unless they ate at the Stardust Diner), don Bellarosa could run out two goons, a bunny, and probably more hired guns and help inside. I turned back to Mancuso, who was also missing Easter with his family, and asked a bit sarcastically, "When can I expect Mr Bellarosa to go away for a while?"

"I can't comment on that, Mr Sutter."

I said, "I am not pleased with this situation, Mr Mancuso."

"Neither are we, sir."

"Well, then, arrest the guy."

"We're gathering evidence, sir."

I felt my anger rising, and poor Mr Mancuso, who represented the forces of official impotence, was going to get a piece of my civic mind. I snapped, "Frank Bellarosa has been a known criminal for nearly three decades, and he lives a better life than you or I, Mr Mancuso, and you are still gathering evidence." "Yes, sir."

"Perhaps crime does pay in this country."

"No, it doesn't, sir. Not in the long run."

"Is thirty years a short run?"

"Well, Mr Sutter, if all honest citizens were as outraged as you seem to be, and assisted – " "No, no, Mr Mancuso. Don't give me that crap. I'm not a peace officer, a judge, or a vigilante. Civilized people may pay taxes to the government as part of the social contract. The government is supposed to get rid of Frank Bellarosa. I'll sit on the jury."

"Yes, sir." He added, "Lawyers can't sit on juries."

"I would if I could."

"Yes, sir."

I've spoken to a few Federal types over the course of my career – IRS agents, FBI men, and such – and when they get into their "Yes, sir, Mr Citizen Taxpayer" mode, it means that communication has ended. I said, "Well, go back to your picture-taking."

"Thank you, sir."

I threw the Bronco into gear. "At least the neighbourhood is safe now."

"It usually is in these situations, Mr Sutter."

"Very ironic," I observed.

"Yes, sir."

I looked Mr Mancuso in the eye and asked, "Do you know what capozella is?" He grinned. "Sure. My grandmother used to try to make me eat it. It's a delicacy. Why?"

"Just checking. Arrivederci."

"Happy Easter." He straightened up and all I could see now was his paunch. I hit the gas and released the clutch, throwing up some gravel as I headed up Grace Lane.

The lane ends in a turnaround in front of an estate called Fox Point, which backs onto the Sound. Fox Point may become a mosque, but more about that later. I drove around the circle and headed south on Grace Lane, passing Alhambra and the spot where Mr Mancuso had stood. He was gone now, as I expected he would be, but I had such a strong sense that the whole day was hallucinatory that I pulled his card from my pocket and stared at it. I recalled retrieving the shotgun cartridge for the same reason, to establish physical evidence of something that had just happened. "Get hold of yourself, John."

I thought of Mr Mancuso for a minute or two. Clown that he seemed, he was no fool. There was something quietly self-assured about him, and I rather liked the idea of an Italian on the case of another Italian. God knows, the establishment in Washington couldn't handle Bellarosa or his kind. The days of the erstwhile Elliot Ness were over, and Italian-American prosecutors and federal agents were having better luck with their felonious compatriots. In a sort of ironically historical twist, I thought, it was like the Roman senate hiring barbarian mercenaries to fight the barbarians. Satisfied with my analysis and nearly comforted by the chance meeting with the odd-looking Mr Mancuso, I headed toward Aunt Cornelia's.

Within ten minutes I was in the village of Locust Valley. Aunt Cornelia's house is a big Victorian on a quiet side street a few blocks from my office. The house has a turret, a huge attic, and a wraparound porch, the sort of home an Aunt Cornelia should live in, and I have fond childhood memories of the place. My aunt's husband, Uncle Arthur, is a retired failure: that is, he spent vast amounts of inherited income on ventures that went nowhere. But he never forgot the most important Wasp dictum: Never touch the principal. And so now, in retirement, the principal, handled by professionals, myself included, has grown and so has his income. I hope he stays out of business. His three sons, my brainless cousins, who have their father's flair for losing money, are made to repeat every morning, "Never touch the principal." They'll be all right, and so will their witless children, as long as they never touch the principal. Aunt Cornelia's street was lined with cars, because it was a street where everyone's aunt, grandmother, and mother lived; a place, to paraphrase Robert Frost, where when you had to go home for a holiday, any home on the block would do.

I found a parking space and walked up to Aunt Cornelia's house. I stood on the porch awhile, took a deep breath, opened the front door, and entered. The house was filled with people, all of them in some way or the other related to me and to each other, I suppose. I'm not good at the extended-family game, and I never know whom I'm supposed to kiss, whose kids belong to whom, or any of that. I'm always putting my foot in my mouth, asking divorced people how their spouses are, inquiring of bankrupt relatives how business is, and on more than one occasion, asking about the health of a parent who has been dead a few years. Susan, who is not related to any of these people except through me, knows everybody's name, their relationship to me, who died, who was born, and who got divorced, as if it were her job to make entries in the family Bible. I almost wished she were at my side now, whispering in my ear, something like, "That's your cousin Barbara, daughter of your aunt Annie and your deceased uncle Bart. Barbara's husband, Carl, left her for a man. Barbara is upset, but is taking it well, though she hates men now." Thus forewarned, I would be forearmed when I greeted Barbara, though there wouldn't be much to talk about except maybe women's tennis or something like that.

Anyway, there they all were, holding glasses in their left hands, gums flapping, and my mind raced ahead to possible pitfalls. I said a few hellos, but managed to avoid any real conversation by moving quickly from room to room through large double doors in the big old house, as if I were on my way to the bathroom. I saw Judy and Lester Remsen, who always put in appearances at my family affairs, but for the life of me I can't find a single relative who knows how Lester is related to us. It may be just a terrible mistake on his part, and he may have realized it at some point, but is afraid to stop coming to these things, thereby admitting he's been at the wrong family functions for thirty years.

As I slipped from room to room and out of conversational traps, I caught glimpses of my mother and father and of Susan, but I avoided them. I was acutely aware that I was underdressed and undergroomed. Even the kids were wearing pressed clothes and leather shoes.

I found the bar, set up in the butler's pantry, and made myself a scotch and soda. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I was surprised when I turned to see my sister, Emily, who I had understood could not make it from Texas. We embraced and kissed. Emily and I are close despite the years and miles that have separated us, and if there is anyone in this world I care about aside from Susan and my children, it is my sister.

I noticed a man standing behind her and assumed it was her new beau. He smiled at me, and Emily introduced us. "John, this is my friend, Gary." I shook hands with Gary, who was a handsome, suntanned, young man, about ten years younger than Emily. He spoke in a Texas drawl. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr Sutter."

"John. I've heard a lot about you." I glanced at Emily and saw she was radiant, younger looking than when I'd last seen her, aglow with a new sexual fire that made her eyes sparkle. I was truly overjoyed for her and she knew it. The three of us chatted for a minute, then Gary excused himself, and Emily and I slipped into the big storage room off the butler's pantry. Emily took my hand. "John, I'm so happy."

"You look it."

She fixed her eyes on mine. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Yes. I'm on the verge of cracking up. It's marvellous." She laughed. "I'm a slut and you look like a bum. Mother and Dad are scandalized."

I smiled in return. "Good." My parents, as I've mentioned, are socially progressive, but when their own family is involved in some sort of iconoclastic behaviour, my parents become keepers of the traditional values. I hesitate to use the word hypocrites.

Emily asked, "Are you and Susan okay?"

"I don't know."

"She told me you were unhappy and she was concerned. I think she wanted me to speak to you."

I stirred my scotch and soda, then sipped it. Susan knows that, aside from herself, only Emily can speak to me intimately. I responded, "Most of Susan's problems are of Susan's own making, and most of my problems are of my making. That's the problem." I added, "I think we're bored. We need a challenge."

"So, challenge each other."

I smiled. "To what? A sword fight? Anyway, it's not serious."

"But of course it is."

"There's nobody else involved," I said. "At least not on my part." I finished my drink and set the glass on a shelf. "We still have a good love life." "I'm sure you do. So take her upstairs and make love to her." "Really, Emily." People who are in steamy relationships think they've found a new cure for all life's ills.

"John, she really is devoted to you."

I can't get angry with Emily, but I said, with an edge in my voice, "Susan is self-centred, self-indulgent, narcissistic, and aloof. She is not devoted to anyone but Susan and Zanzibar. Sometimes Yankee. But that's Susan, and it's all right."

"But she is in love with you."

"Yes, she probably is. But she has taken me for granted."

"Ah," said the perceptive Emily. "Ah."

"Don't 'ah' me." We both laughed, then I said seriously, "But I'm not acting different to get her attention. I really am different."

"How so?"

"Well, I got drunk last night and slept outside, and I growled at a woman." Since Emily is my good friend, I was happy to tell her about my morning, and we were both laughing so hard, someone – I couldn't see who – opened the door a crack and peeked in, then shut it.

Emily took my arm. "Do you know that joke – 'What is a real man's idea of group therapy?' Answer, 'World War Two'."

I smiled tentatively.

She continued, "Beyond midlife crisis, John, and male menopause, whatever that is, is the desire to simply be a man. I mean in the most basic biological sense, in a way no one wants to speak about in polite company. To fight a war, or knock somebody over the head, or some surrogate activity like hunting or building a log cabin or climbing a mountain. That's what your morning was about. I wish my husband had let himself go once in a while. He started to believe that his paper shuffling was not only important, but terribly challenging. I'm glad you cracked up. Just try to make it a constructive crack-up."

"You're a very bright woman."

"I'm your sister, John. I love you."

"I love you."

We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then Emily asked, "Does this new fellow next door, Bellarosa, have anything to do with your present state of mind?"

It did, though I didn't completely understand myself how the mere presence of Frank Bellarosa on the periphery of my property was causing me to reevaluate my life. "Maybe… I mean, the guy has broken all the rules, and he lives on the edge, and he seems at peace with himself, for God's sake. He's completely in control and Susan thinks he's interesting."

"I see, and that annoyed you. Typical male. But Susan also tells me he seems to like you."

"I guess."

"And you want to live up to his estimation of you?"

"No… but…"

"Be careful, John. Evil is very seductive."

"I know." I changed the subject. "How long are you staying?" "Gary and I fly out early tomorrow. Come out and see us. We have a perfectly horrible shack near the water. We eat shrimps and drink Corona beer, we run on the beach and swat mosquitoes." She added, "And make love. Bring Susan if you wish."

"Maybe."

She put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. "John, you have got to get out of here. This is the old world. No one lives like this in America anymore. This place has a three-hundred-year history of secret protocols, ancient grievances, and a stifling class structure. The Gold Coast makes New England look informal and friendly."

"I know all that."

"Think about it." She moved toward the door. "Are you going to hide in here?"

I smiled. "For a while."

"I'll bring you a drink. Scotch and soda?"

"That's right."

She left and returned in a minute with a tall glass filled with ice and soda water and a whole bottle of Dewar's. She said, "Don't leave without saying good-bye."

"I may have to."

We kissed and she left. I sat on a stool and drank, surveying the room filled with table linens, silver pieces, crystal, and other objects from what we call a more genteel age. Maybe Emily was right. This world was half ruin and half museum, and we were all surrounded by the evidence of former glory, which is not a psychologically healthy thing, or good for our collective egos. But what lies out there in the American heartland? Dairy Queens and K Marts, pickup trucks and mosquitoes? Are there any Episcopalians west of the Alleghenies? Like many of my peers, I've been all around the world, but I've never been to America. I stood, braced myself, and made another foray into the cauldron of boiling family blood.

I walked upstairs where I knew there would be fewer people and went into the turret room, which is still a playroom for kids as it was when I was a child. There were, in fact, ten children in there, not playing make-believe as I had done, but watching a videotape of a gruesome shock-horror movie that one of them must have smuggled in. "Happy Easter," I said. A few heads turned toward me, but these children had not yet learned intelligible speech and were picking up points on how to become axe murderers.

I shut off the television and removed the videotape. No one said anything, but a few of them were sizing me up for the chain saw.

I sat and chatted with them awhile, telling them stories of how I had played in this very room before it had a television. "And once," I said to Scott, age ten, "your father and I made believe we were locked in here and it was the Tower of London and all we had was bread and water."

"Why?"

"Well… it was pretend."

"Why?"

"Anyway, we made paper airplanes with messages written on them, asking for help, and we sailed the planes out the window. And someone's maid found one and thought it was for real, and she called the police."

"Pretty stupid," said Justin, age twelve. "She must have been Spanish."

A little girl informed Justin, "They can't even read English, you dope." "The maid," I said with annoyance, "was black. There were a lot of black maids then and she read English and she was a very concerned woman. Anyway, the police came, and Aunt Cornelia called us downstairs to talk to them. We got a good lecture, then when the police left, we got punished by being locked up for real, in the root cellar."

"What's a root cellar?"

"She locked you up? For what?"

"Did you ever get even with the maid?"

"Yes," I replied, "we cut off her head." I stood. "But enough about last Easter." No one caught the subtle humour. "Play Monopoly," I suggested. "Can we have the tape back?"

"No." I walked out into the hallway with the videotape, sadder but wiser. I felt like sitting in the root cellar again, but as I made the turn in the hallway, I ran into Terri, a stunning blonde, married to my cousin Freddie, one of Arthur's brainless sons. "Well, hello," I said. "Where are you heading?" "Hello, John. I'm checking on the kids."

"They're fine," I informed her. "They're playing doctor and nurse."

She gave me a tight smile.

"Have you had your complete physical yet?" I inquired.

"Behave."

I walked over to a door across from the stairs and opened it. "I was on my way to the attic. Would you like to join me?"

"Why?"

"There are some beautiful old gowns up there. Would you like to try some on?"

"How's Susan?"

"Ask Susan."

Terri seemed a little nervous, but I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or considering the possibilities. I closed the attic door and moved toward the staircase. "I guess we're too old for make-believe." I started down the stairs, slowly.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing to the videotape in my hand.

"Trash. It's going in the garbage."

"Oh… those damned kids…" She added, "I'm glad you took it away from them."

"That's my job. Uncle Creep."

She laughed. "I wish Freddie would do that once in a while."

"It may be a lost cause. But it's our duty to civilization to try."

"Yes." She looked at me and smiled. "You're very casual today, John."

"I'm having an identity crisis, and I don't know how to dress for it."

"You're crazy."

"So what?" I stared at her.

She didn't reply, and I could see the hook was in, and all I had to do was reel up. This, you have to understand, is a woman who is used to men sniffing and drooling around her and has about fifty polite and impolite ways of handling it. But now she was just standing there, looking defenceless and ready for my next move. I started feeling guilty or something, so I said, "See you later." "John, could I talk to you about a will? I think I need a will."

"You do if you don't have one."

"Should I call you?"

"Yes, I'm in the city Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Locust Valley Monday and Friday. We'll have lunch."

"All right. Thanks."

I went down the wide winding staircase, my feet barely touching the steps. I was on. I was magnetic, charismatic, interesting. I believed it, and that made it so. And I didn't even need my thousand-dollar cashmere sport jacket or my ninety-dollar Hermes tie. I had power over men and women. Children next. I wanted to tell Susan, but maybe I should keep my mouth shut and see if she noticed.

I also knew I should quit while I was ahead, before I got cornered by old people who are very good at scoping out a room, sizing up their prey, and making telepathically coordinated moves until they've got you cornered. I dashed for the front door, pretending not to notice two male cousins who were calling my name. A lot of people are named John.

I got outside, bounded down the porch steps, and hurried down the street, stopping only long enough to throw the videotape down a storm drain. I jumped into the Bronco and drove off.

It was twilight, and I drove slowly with the windows down, breathing in the cool air.

I like to drive, because it is one of the few times I am unreachable. I have no car phone with answering machine, call-waiting, and call-forwarding, no CB, no car fax, ticker tape, telex, or beeper. Only a fuzz buster. I do have an AM radio, but it's usually locked into the U.S. Weather Service marine forecast out of Block Island. I like weather reports because they are useful information, and you can check the accuracy for yourself. And the guys who deliver the marine forecast talk in monotone, and they don't make jokes, like the idiots on regular radio or TV. They report an approaching hurricane in the same tone of voice they tell you it will be sunny and mild. I turned on the weather station, and the voice recapped the day's weather without telling me what a nice day it had been for the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue. I learned that cumulonimbus clouds were on the way and that heavy rains were expected for Monday morning, with winds from the northeast at ten to fifteen knots, and there were small-craft advisories. We'll see. I drove for another hour or so, but traffic was starting to get heavy, so I headed home. Sunday evenings have never been a good time for me, and under the best of circumstances I'm moody and turn in early.

Susan came home after I'd settled into bed with the lights out. She asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"No."

"Are you feeling well?"

"I'm very well."

"Your mother and Aunt Cornelia were wondering if there was anything wrong with you."

"Then they should have asked me, not you."

"You avoided them. Your father was disappointed he didn't have a chance to speak to you."

"He's had over forty years to speak to me."

"Do you want to speak to me?"

"No, I want to snore. Good night."

"Emily passes on her best wishes. Good night." Susan went downstairs. I lay very still and looked up at the dark ceiling, feeling about as good as I'd felt in a long time, and about as bad as I'd ever felt in my life. What had happened to me in the last few days, I thought, was both apostasy and apotheosis; I had abandoned my old faith, and in the process had acquired new godlike powers. Well, that might be overstating the case, but certainly I wasn't the same man I had been a few weeks ago.

After a few minutes of metaphysics, I closed the door on the day. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and I imagined myself out on the ocean at night, alone with my boat, the waves breaking over the bow, and the sails filled with wind. It was a good feeling, but I knew that ultimately, when the storm broke, I could not handle the helm and the sails alone. Wondering what to do about that, I fell asleep.

CHAPTER 11

Monday, Easter Monday, it rained as predicted, and the winds were indeed from the northeast, blowing in over Cape Cod and across the Sound, a bit of leftover winter.

I had risen at dawn and discovered that Susan had slept elsewhere, probably in a guest room. I showered and threw on jeans and a sweater, then headed into Locust Valley where I had breakfast at a coffee shop.

I lingered over my coffee and read the New York Post for the first time in ten years. An interesting paper, sort of like beef jerky for the mind. I ordered a coffee to go, left the coffee shop, and drove the few blocks in the rain to my office. I went upstairs to my private office, which had once been the second-floor sitting room, and I built a fire in the fireplace. I sat in my leather wingback chair, put my bare feet up on the fender, and read a copy of Long Island Monthly as I sipped coffee from the paper cup. There was an article in the magazine about getting your East End house ready for Memorial Day, the official start of summer fun and sun. This, of course, reminded me that I had a place to go if I went into self-imposed exile or was declared persona non grata in Stanhope land.

My summer house in East Hampton is a cedar-shingled true colonial, built in 1769, surrounded by wisteria and fruit trees. I own that house with Susan – it is mine, hers, and the bank's.

My ancestors on my father's side were original settlers on the eastern end of this island, arriving from England in the 1660s when this New World was indeed very new. I actually have in my possession an original land grant given to one Elias Sutter by Charles II in 1663. That land encompassed about a third of Southampton Township, now one of the most exclusive beach communities on the East Coast, and if the Sutters still owned it, we'd all be billionaires. That far eastern strip of this island, jutting out into the Atlantic, is a strikingly beautiful landscape, geographically different from the Gold Coast, but in some ways bound to it by family connections, money, and social similarities. More importantly, it is far less populated out there, and the nature nuts are in control. You can hardly put up a mailbox without filing an environmental impact statement.

This ancient connection to the eastern tip of Long Island has always interested me as an abstract footnote to my own life, but until now it has had little impact on my thinking. Lately, however, I've been wondering if the time has come to live in Sutter land rather than Stanhope land.

I tried to picture myself a country lawyer, my stocking feet on the desk in some storefront office, pulling in maybe thirty thousand a year and joining the rush down to the docks when the bluefish were running.

I wonder if Susan would live out there year-round. She would have to board her horses, but the riding there is spectacular, the public trails running through the Shinnecock Hills, right down to the Atlantic Ocean and along the white sand beach. Maybe that's what we needed to get ourselves together. I sometimes like to come to the office on a day off and catch up on things, but I've never before used the office as a refuge from domestic problems. I put the magazine down, closed my eyes, and listened to the crackling fire and the wind and rain. Absolutely delightful.

I heard the front door open. I had left it unlocked in case any of the more enthusiastic troops wanted to put in a few hours or, like myself, just get away from home. I heard the door shut, then heard footsteps in the foyer. We have a dozen people working here: six secretaries, two paralegals, two junior partners, and two new law clerks, both young women who will take the bar exam this year. One of the budding new attorneys is Karen Talmadge, who will go far because she is bright, articulate and energetic. She is also beautiful, but I mention that only in passing.

I hoped that the footsteps I'd heard were Karen's because there were a few interesting legal concepts I wanted to discuss with her. But in the next instant, I realized that it didn't matter if it was her, my wife, my homely secretary, sexy Terri, or my little nieces and nephews with axes and chain saws. I just wanted to be alone. No sex or violence.

I listened and realized that the footsteps were slow and heavy, unlike a woman's tread. Perhaps it was the mailman or a deliveryman or even a client who didn't know I had made Easter Monday a new holiday. Whoever was down there was walking around, going from room to room, looking for someone or something. I thought I should go down and investigate, but then I heard the bottom step squeak, and a voice called out, "Mr Sutter?"

I put the coffee down and stood.

"Mr Sutter?"

I hesitated, then replied, "I'm up here." The heavy footsteps ascended the stairs, and I said, "Second door to your left."

Frank Bellarosa, wearing a shapeless raincoat and a grey felt hat, came through the door into my office. "Ah," he said, "there you are. I saw your Jeep outside."

"Bronco."

"Yeah. Do you have a few minutes? I got some things I want to talk to you about."

"We're closed today," I informed him. "It's Easter Monday."

"Yeah? Hey, you got a fire. Mind if I sit?"

I sure did, but I motioned to the wooden rocker facing my chair across the hearth, and Mr Bellarosa took off his wet hat and coat and hung them on the clothes tree near the door. He sat. "You religious?" he asked. "No. Episcopalian."

"Yeah? You take this day off?"

"Sometimes. Business is slow." I picked up the poker and happened to glance at Bellarosa, whose eyes, I saw, were not on me or the fire, but on the heavy, blunt object in my hand. The man had very primitive instincts, I thought. I poked the logs in the fire, then with no abrupt movements, put the poker back. I had the urge to ask Bellarosa if this was a stickup, but I didn't want to strain our new relationship with bad humour. I said instead, "Do you have the day off?" He smiled. "Yeah."

I sat in the chair opposite him. "What sort of business are you in?" "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about." He crossed his legs and tried rocking a few times as if he'd never sat in a rocker before. He said, "My grandmother had one of these. Used to rock, rock, rock, all day. She walked with two canes, you know, before they had those walker things, and sometimes if you were trying to get past her to get into the kitchen, she'd swat you with one of the canes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I never asked her."

"I see." I regarded Mr Bellarosa a moment. He was wearing basically the same outfit as on Saturday, but the colours were sort of reversed; the blazer was grey and the slacks were navy blue, the shoes were now black, and the turtleneck was white. More interestingly, I could see his shoulder holster. He looked at me and asked, "You ever have trouble with trespassers?"

I cleared my throat. "Once in a while. Nothing serious. Why?" "Well, there was a guy on my property yesterday morning. Scared the hell out of my wife. My…' "People sometimes like to walk on the estates. You get the vandalism at night with the kids."

"This was no kid. White guy, about fifty. Looked like a derelict."

"Really? Did he actually do anything to frighten your wife?"

"Yeah. He growled at her."

"My goodness. Did you call the police?"

"Nah. My gardeners chased him with the dogs. But he went on to your place. I woulda called you, but you're unlisted."

"Thank you. I'll keep an eye out."

"Good. Now my wife wants to move back to Brooklyn. Maybe you can tell her this is a safe place."

"I'll call her."

"Or stop by."

"Perhaps." I sat in the wing chair and stared at the crackling fire. Fifty? She must be half blind. I hope so.

The wind had picked up, and the rain was splashing against the windowpanes. We sat in silence awhile, while one of us contemplated the purpose of this visit. Finally, Mr Bellarosa asked, "Hey, you ever get those vegetables in the ground?"

"Not yet. But I did eat the radicchio."

"Yeah? You like it?"

"Very much. I hope you gave me some to plant."

"Oh, sure. It's marked. You got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant."

"Do I have olives?"

He laughed. "No. Olives grow on a tree. The trees are hundreds of years old. You can't grow them here. You like olives?"

"For my martini."

"Yeah? I'm growing figs, though. I bought five green and five purple. But you got to cover the trees in the winter here. You wrap them with tar paper and stuff leaves around them so they don't freeze."

"Really? Is gardening your hobby?"

"Hobby? I don't have hobbies. Whatever I do, I do for real." I was sure of that.

I finished my coffee and threw the paper cup in the fire. "So." "Hey," said Frank Bellarosa, "you missed a good time yesterday. Lots of good people, plenty to eat and drink."

"I'm sorry we couldn't be there. How was the lamb's head?" He laughed again. The old people eat that. You got to have things like that for them or they think you're getting too American." He thought for a moment, then added, "You know, when I was a kid, I wouldn't eat squid or octopus or any of that real greaseball stuff. Now I eat most of it."

"But not lamb's head."

"No. I can't do that. Jeez, they pluck the eyes out and cut the tongue off and eat the nose and cheeks and brains." He chuckled. "I just ate the lamb chops. What do you people have for Easter?"

"Headless spring lamb, with mint jelly."

"Yeah, but you know something? In this country, I see the kids getting more interested in the old ways. I see it with my nieces and nephews and my own kids. At first they don't want to be Italian, then they get more Italian when they get older. You see it with the Irish, the Polacks, the Jews. You notice that?" I hadn't noticed that Edward or Carolyn were dancing round the maypole or eating kippered herrings, but I had noticed that some ethnic groups were doing the roots thing. I don't entirely disapprove as long as there are no human sacrifices involved.

"I mean," Bellarosa continued, "people are looking for something. Because maybe American culture doesn't have some things that people need." I looked at Frank Bellarosa with new interest. I never thought he would be a complete idiot, but neither did I think that I would hear words such as 'American culture' from him. I asked, "You have children?" "Sure. Three boys, God bless 'em, they're healthy and smart. The oldest guy, Frankie, is married and lives in Jersey. Tommy is in college. Cornell. He's studying hotel management. I got a place in Atlantic City for him to run. Tony is at boarding school. He goes to La Salle, where I went. All my kids went there. You know the place?"

"Yes, I do." La Salle Military Academy is a Catholic boarding school for boys, out in Oakdale on the south shore of Long Island. I have Catholic friends who have or had sons there, and I attended a fund-raiser there once. Its campus is on the Great South Bay and was once an estate, one of the few on the Atlantic side of this island, and belonged, I believe, to an heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune. "A very fine school," I said.

Bellarosa smiled, proudly, I thought. "Yeah. They made me learn there. No bullshit there. You ever read Machiavelli? The Prince?" "Yes, I did."

"I can quote whole pages of it."

And, I thought, you can probably write the sequel to it. I had heard rumours, and now it was confirmed, that boys with certain types of family connections, such as Mr Bellarosa's, were alumni of this school. On a somewhat higher level, there were a number of leaders from certain Latin American countries who were La Salle graduates, including General Samoza, formerly of Nicaragua. This same school had also produced men who had made their marks in politics, law, the military, and the Catholic clergy. An interesting school, I thought, sort of the Catholic version of the Eastern Establishment Wasp prep school. Sort of. I asked, "Didn't White House Chief of Staff John Sununu go there?" "Yeah. I knew the guy. Class of '57. I was '58. Knew Peter O'Malley, too. You know him?"

"Dodgers" president?"

"Yeah. What a place that was. They break your balls there, the good Christian brothers. But maybe not so much anymore. The whole fucking country got soft. But they broke my balls back then."

"I'm sure it did you some good," I said. "Perhaps you'll be rich and famous someday."

He went along with the joke and replied, "Yeah. Maybe if I didn't go there, I would've wound up in jail." He laughed.

I smiled. Certain things about Frank Bellarosa were making sense now, including his nearly intelligent accent, and, I guess, his nickname, the Bishop. A Catholic military school had always struck me as a contradiction in terms, but I suppose on one level there was no contradiction. "So," I asked, "were you a soldier?"

Bellarosa replied, "If you mean an army soldier, then no."

"What other kind of soldier is there?" I asked innocently. He looked at me, and his lips pursed in thought a moment before he replied, "We are all soldiers, Mr Sutter, because life is war."

"Life is conflict," I agreed, "but that's what makes it interesting. War is something else."

"Not the way I handle conflicts."

"Then maybe you should take up conflict as a hobby." He seemed to ponder that, then smiled. "Yeah." He returned to the subject of his alma mater. "I had six years at La Salle, and I got to appreciate military organization, chain of command, and all that. That helped me in my business." "I suppose it would," I agreed. "I was an army officer and I still find myself applying things I learned in the military to my business and my life." "Yeah. So you see what I mean."

"I do." So there I was, having an almost pleasant chat with the head of New York's most powerful crime family, talking about food, kids, and school days. It seemed a relaxed conversation, despite my innuendoes regarding his business, and I admit the man was an okay guy, not in the least slimy, stupid, or thuggish. And if the conversation were being taped and played back to a grand jury or at a cocktail party, there would be a few yawns. But what did I expect him to talk about? Murder and the drug trade?

There was a chance, I thought, that he didn't want anything more than to be a good neighbour. But as a lawyer, I was sceptical, and as a socially prominent member of the community, I was on my guard. No good could come of this, I knew, yet I was reluctant to end the conversation. Yes, Emily, evil is seductive. Looking back on all of this, I can't say I didn't know or wasn't warned. I asked him, "And did the religious part of La Salle's curriculum leave as lasting an impression on you as the military aspect?"

He thought a moment, then replied, "Yeah. I'm scared shitless of hell." I remembered the Virgin at the end of his reflecting pool. I said, "Well, that's a start."

He nodded, then looked around my office, taking in the wood, the hunting prints, the leather, and the brass, probably thinking to himself, "Wasp junk", or words to that effect. He said, "This is an old law firm."

"Yes." I supposed he thought if the furniture was old, the firm was old, but I had underestimated his interest in me, because he added, "I asked around. My lawyer knew the name right away."

"I see." I had the outlandish thought that he was going to make me an offer for the place, and decided that two million would be fair.

"Anyway," he said, "here's the thing. I'm buying a piece of commercial property on Glen Cove Road, and I need a lawyer to represent me at contract and closing." "Are we talking business now?"

"Yeah. Start the clock, Counsellor."

I thought a moment, then said, "You just indicated you have a lawyer."

"Yeah. The guy who knew your firm."

"Then why don't you use him for this deal?"

"He's in Brooklyn."

"Send him the cab fare."

Bellarosa smiled. "Maybe you know him. Jack Weinstein." "Oh." Mr Weinstein is what is known as a mob lawyer, a minor celebrity in late twentieth-century America. "Can't he handle a real estate transaction?" "No. This is one smart Jew, you know? But real estate is not his thing."

"What," I asked sarcastically, "is his thing?"

"A little of this, and a little of that. But not real estate. I want a Long Island guy, like you, for my Long Island business. Somebody who knows the ropes out here with these people." He added, "I think you know all the right people, Mr Sutter."

And, I thought, you, Mr Bellarosa, know all the wrong people. I said, "Surely you have a firm that represents your commercial interests." "Yeah. I got a regular law firm in the city. Bellamy, Schiff and Landers."

"Didn't they handle your closing on Alhambra?"

"Yeah. You checked that out?"

"It's public record. So why don't you use them?"

"I told you. I want a local firm for local business."

I recalled the conversation I had with Lester Remsen regarding the Lauderbach estate, and I said to Bellarosa, "My practice is rather select, Mr Bellarosa, and to be blunt with you, my clients are the type of people who believe that an attorney is known by the company he keeps."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning I could lose clients if I took you on as a client."

He didn't seem offended, merely doubtful that I knew what I was talking about. He said with pointed patience, "Mr Sutter, Bellamy, Schiff and Landers is a very upright firm. You know them?"

"Yes."

"They don't have a problem with my business."

"This is not New York City. We do things differently here."

"Yeah? That's not what I'm finding out."

"Well, you just found out that we do."

"Look, Mr Sutter, you have a Manhattan office. Run my business out of there."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I told you, my clients… no, actually, I personally do not wish to represent you, and you know why."

We both sat in silence a moment, and several things ran through my mind, none of them pleasant. It's generally not a good policy to argue with people who are armed, and I hoped that was the end of it. But Frank Bellarosa was not used to taking no for an answer. And in that respect, he wasn't much different from most American businessmen. He knew what he wanted and he wanted to get to yes, while I wanted to stay at no.

He crossed his legs and pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. Finally he said, "Let me explain the deal, then if you decide no, we shake hands and stay friends."

I didn't recall the exact moment when we became friends, and I was upset to learn that we had. Also, I did not want to hear about the deal, but I couldn't be any more blunt without being insulting. Normally, I'm a lot smoother in these situations, but in some curious way, it was Frank Bellarosa himself who had caused me to change my style. Specifically, I blamed him in part for my fight with Susan, though he didn't know that, of course. And the fight had led to one thing after another, culminating in the new John Sutter. Hooray. And while I could appreciate a man like Frank Bellarosa now, I wasn't going to work for him. In fact, I found it easier to tell him to buzz off. I said, "I can recommend a firm in Glen Cove that would probably handle your business." "Okay. But let me ask your opinion about this deal first. Just neighbourly advice. No formal agreement, no paperwork, and don't bill me." He smiled. "I'm buying the old American Motors showroom on Glen Cove Road. You know it?" "Yes."

"Prime property. Good for something. Maybe a Subaru dealership. Maybe Toyota.

Some Jap dealership or other. Do you think that would be good?" Against my better judgement, I gave him my opinion. "I personally don't buy Japanese and most of the people I know around here don't either." "Is that so? Glad I asked. You see what I mean? You know the territory, and you're honest. Anybody else woulda just seen dollar signs." "Maybe. I'll give you another piece of free advice, Mr Bellarosa – you don't just buy property and decide what kind of car dealership you want to put in there. These dealerships are tightly controlled, with territories and all sorts of other requirements that you may not be able to meet. You must know that." "You're asking me if I know about territories?" He laughed. "Anyway, I can get whatever dealership I want."

"Is that so?"

"That is so."

I should introduce Mr Bellarosa to Lester, but they probably wouldn't like or trust each other. They did, however, have that one thing in common: they wanted you to believe that everyone was doing it, doing it, doing it. I honestly believe that there is not as much corruption in this country as there is the perception of corruption, and it is that perception that a man like Frank Bellarosa uses to demoralize and ultimately corrupt businessmen, lawyers, police, judges, and politicians. But I wasn't buying it.

"So," he continued, "I'm offering six million for the land and the building. You know the property. Is that about right?"

"I'm not sure what the market is at the moment," I said, "but I had the impression you had already struck a deal and just needed an attorney at the closing."

"Well, yes and no. There's always room to negotiate, right? The owners have some better offers, but I made my best offer, and I have to show them that my best offer is their best offer."

"That's a novel approach to business."

"Nah. I do it all the time."

I studied Bellarosa's face, and he smiled at me, then said, "I don't want to screw the guy, but I don't want to get screwed either. So let's say six is fair. So what do you get? A point? That's sixty thousand, Mr Sutter, for a few days' work."

This is what you call a moment of truth. But there had been a lot of them in the last few weeks. Stealing ten million from an old lady was illegal and immoral. Earning sixty thousand dollars legally from a crook was borderline. I said, "I thought we agreed I was giving you free neighbourly advice." "We also agreed you would listen to the deal."

"I listened. Tell me how you can get any car dealership you want." He waved his hand in dismissal of my petty concerns and said, "There is no problem with the real estate end of this deal. It's straight. Trust me on that." "Okay, I trust you." I leaned toward him. "But maybe the source of the money for this deal is not so straight."

He looked at me, and I could see I had pushed his patience a bit too far. He said coolly, "Let the government worry about that."

I couldn't argue with that, because I had made a similar point with Mr Mancuso only yesterday. I stood. "I sincerely appreciate your confidence in me, Mr Bellarosa, but I suggest you use Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove. They will have no problem with the deal or the fee."

Bellarosa stood also and gathered his coat and hat. He said, apropos of nothing, "I've been reading up on the soil here. It's that glacial outwash you said." "Good."

"I put in a grape arbour. Concord table grapes from upstate. They do good here, according to the book." The book is right."

"But I want to do a wine grape. Anybody around here grow wine grapes?" "Mostly out east. But the Banfi Vintners in Old Brookville have been successful with chardonnay. You should talk to them."

"Yeah? You see what I mean?" He tapped his forehead. "You're a smart man, Mr Sutter. I knew that. No Jap cars, chardonnay grapes."

"No charge."

"I'll give you a case of my first wine."

"Thank you, Mr Bellarosa. Just don't sell any wine without tax stamps."

"Sure. What do you think of Saabs?"

"Good choice."

"How about Casa Bianca? White House. Instead of Alhambra."

"Sort of common. Sounds like a pizza place. Work on that."

He smiled. "Give my regards to Mrs Sutter."

"I certainly will. And my best regards to your wife, and I hope she has gotten over her upset."

"Yeah, you know women. You talk to her, okay?"

I opened the door for Mr Bellarosa and we shook hands. He left with two parting words. "See ya."

I closed the door behind him. "Yeah."

I went to the window and watched him walk across Birch Hill Road through the rain.

The village of Locust Valley is not all upper middle class, and there is another side of the tracks. And when I was thirteen, before I went up to St Paul's, I had the opportunity to know some tough guys. The odd thing, as I recall, was that many of them thought I was an okay guy for a twit. One of them, Jimmy Curcio, a killer-in-training if ever there was one, used to shake my hand every opportunity he got. The little monster was irrepressible in his friendliness, and one time, I now remember, he was standing in the schoolyard with a group of his capos and foot soldiers around him, and as I was passing by, he tapped his forehead and said to them, "That's a smart guy."

I watched Frank Bellarosa approach his Cadillac and was not surprised to see a chauffeur – maybe I should say a wheelman or bodyguard – jump out and open the rear door for him. Vanderbilts and Roosevelts may drive their own cars these days, but not don Bellarosa or his kind.

I turned from the window, went back to the fire, and poked at it. Actually, I am a smart guy. And Frank Bellarosa, I was learning, was smarter than I had thought. I suppose I should have known that stupid people don't get that far and live that long in his business.

The real estate deal, I thought, may have been for real, but it was also bait. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. We're both smart guys. But why me?

Well, if you think about it, as he obviously had done, then it made good business sense. I mean, what a team we would make: my social graces, his charisma, my honesty, his dishonesty, my ability to manage money, his ability to steal it, my law degree, his gun.

It was something to think about, wasn't it?

CHAPTER 12

I rattled around the big old house on Birch Hill Road all day, ignoring the ringing phone, watching the rain, and even doing some work. No one else, except the mailman, came by, and I was irrationally annoyed that my employees had actually taken the day off on my made-up holiday. I would have written a nasty memo to the staff, but I can't type.

At about five P.M., the fax machine dinged, and I walked over to it out of idle curiosity. A piece of that horrible paper slithered out, and I read the handwritten note on it:

John,

All is forgiven. Come home for cold dinner and hot sex.

Susan

I looked at the note a moment, then scribbled a reply in disguised handwriting and sent it to my home fax:

Susan

John is out of the office, but I'll give him your message as soon as he returns.

Jeremy

Jeremy Wright is one of the junior partners here. I suppose I was pleased to hear from Susan, though it was not I who needed forgiving. I wasn't the one rolling around in the hay with two college kids, and I wasn't the one who thought Frank Bellarosa was good-looking. Also, I was annoyed that she would put that sort of thing over the fax. But I was happy to see that she had regained her sense of humour, which had been noticeably lacking recently, unless you count the laughing from the hayloft.

As I was about to walk away from the fax machine, it rang again and another message come through:

Jerry,

Join me for dinner, etc?

Sue

I assumed, of course, that Susan had recognized my handwriting, i replied:

Sue,

Ten minutes.

Jerry

On the way home, I saw that the sky was clearing rapidly with wisps of black cirrus sailing across a sunny sky as the southerlies brought the warm weather back. Long Island is not a large land mass, but the weather on the Atlantic side can be vastly different from the Sound side, and the East End has its own weather patterns. All of this weather is subject to change very quickly, which makes life and boating interesting.

I turned the Bronco into Stanhope's gateway and waved to George, who was on a ladder cutting some low branches on a beech tree.

As I headed toward my house, I tried to put myself in the right postbellum, precoital mood.

Susan swung open the door, wearing nothing at all, and called out, "Jerry!" then put one hand over her mouth and the other over her pubic region. "Oh..!" "Very funny."

Dinner was indeed cold – a salad, white wine, and half-frozen shrimp. Susan has never taken to cooking, but I don't fault her. It's a wonder she knows how to turn on the oven considering she never even saw Stanhope Hall's downstairs kitchen until she was twenty. But dinner was served in the nude, so what could I complain about?

Susan sat on my lap at the dinner table and fed me icy shrimp with her fingers, poured wine into my mouth, and dabbed my face with a napkin. She didn't say much and neither did I, but I had the feeling everything was all right. It's quite pleasant to eat with a naked woman on your lap, especially if the meal isn't so good. I said, "Well, so much for the cold dinner. What's for dessert?" "Me."

"Correct."

I stood with her in my arms.

She shook her head. "Not here. I want to make love on the beach tonight." Some women change partners for variety; Susan likes to change the scenery and costumes.

"Sounds fine," I said, though, in truth, I would have preferred a bed, and I would have preferred it in the next two minutes.

Anyway, Susan dressed and we took the Jag. I drove and put the sunroof back and let in the spring air. It was getting on to that moody time of the day, twilight, when the long shadows make a familiar world look different. "Do you want to go to the beach now?" I asked.

"No. After dark."

I drove generally south and west toward the sinking sun, through a lovely landscape of rolling hills, shaded lanes, meadows, ponds, and pockets of woodland.

I tried to sort the events of the last few weeks, which compelled me into the wider subject of my life and my world. There still exists here, less than an hour's drive from midtown Manhattan, this great stretch of land along the northern coast of Long Island, which is almost unknown to the surrounding suburbanites and nearby city dwellers. It is a land that at first glance seems frozen in time, as though the clocks had stopped at the sound of the closing bell on October 29, 1929.

This semi-mythical land, the Gold Coast, is bordered on the north by the coves, bays, and beaches of the Long Island Sound, and on the south by the postwar housing subdivisions of the Hempstead Plains: the Levittowns, the tract housing, the 'affordable homes', built in cookie-cutter fashion, ten and fifteen thousand at a clip where the famous Long Island potato fields once lay, a fulfilment of the postwar promise to provide 'homes fit for heroes'.

But here on the Gold Coast, development has come more slowly. Great estates are not potato fields, and their passing takes a bit longer.

I said to Susan, "The interesting Mr Bellarosa dropped by my office today."

"Did he?"

She didn't pick up on the word interesting, or if she did, she let it slide. Women rarely rise to the bait when the subject is jealousy. They just ignore you or look at you as if you're crazy.

We drove in silence. The sky had completely cleared, and the sunlight sparkled off the wet trees and roads.

The Gold Coast, you should understand, encompasses not only the northern coastline of Long Island's Nassau County, but by local definition includes these low hills that run five to ten miles inland toward the plains. These hills were left by the retreat of the last Ice Age glacier, some twenty thousand years ago, and are in fact the terminal moraine of that glacier. I will explain that to Mr Bellarosa one of these days. Anyway, when the Stone Age Indians returned, they found a nice piece of real estate, abundant with new plant life, game, waterfowl, and fabulous shellfish. Nearly all the Native Americans are gone now, their population probably equalling that of the remaining estate owners. Finally, curiosity got the best of Susan, and she asked, "What did he bring you this time? Goat cheese?"

"No. Actually, he wanted me to represent him on a real estate deal." "Really?" She seemed somewhat amused. "Did he make you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

I smiled, despite myself, and replied, "Sort of. But I did refuse."

"Was he annoyed?"

"I'm not sure." I added, "It sounded like a legitimate deal, but you never know with these people."

"I don't think he would come to you with anything illegal, John." "There is white and there is black, and there are a hundred shades of grey in between." I explained the deal briefly, then added, "Bellarosa said that he had made his best offer, and he had to show the owners that it was their best offer. That sounds a little like strong-arming to me."

"Perhaps you're overly sensitive to the situation."

"Well, the deal aside, then, I have to consider my reputation."

"That's true."

"My fee for the contract and closing would have been about sixty thousand dollars." I glanced at Susan.

"The money is irrelevant."

I suppose if your name happens to be Stanhope, that's true. And that perhaps is the one luxury of the rich that I envy: the luxury to say no to tainted money with no regrets. I, too, indulge myself in that luxury though I'm not rich. Maybe it helps to have a wife who is.

I considered telling Susan about my Easter morning at Alhambra, but in retrospect, the whole incident seemed a bit foolish. Especially growling at the woman. I did, however, want Susan to know about Mr Mancuso. I said, "The FBI is watching Alhambra."

"Really? How do you know that?"

I explained that while I was out driving, I happened to see an Easter bunny and two goons at the gates to Alhambra. Susan thought that was funny. "So," I said, "I pulled over for a minute, and this man, Mancuso, approaches me and identifies himself as an FBI agent." I didn't mention that I was considering going to Mr Bellarosa's Easter thing.

"What did this man say to you?"

I related my brief conversation with Mr Mancuso as we drove past the Piping Rock Country Club. The day had turned out fine weatherwise and otherwise, and there was that fresh smell in the air that comes after a spring rain. Susan seemed intrigued with my story, but I resisted the temptation to embellish it for entertainment purposes and concluded, "Mancuso knew what capozella was." She laughed.

I turned my attention back to the road and the scenery. Not far from here is a huge rock, cleaved in half, with the halves sitting on each side of a tall oak, in the Indian fashion of burial sites. On the rock are engraved these words:

HERE LIES THE LAST

OF THE MATINECOC

The rock is in the churchyard of the Zion Episcopal Church, and at the base of the oak is a metal plaque that says PERPETUAL CARE. So after thousands of years in these woods and hills, that is all that is left of the Matinecocs, swept away in a few decades by an historical event that they could neither resist nor comprehend. The Colonists came, the Dutch and the English – my forebears – and left their marks on the maps and on the landscape, building and naming villages and roads, renaming ponds and streams and hills, though sometimes letting the ancient Indian names stand. But today, ironically, these place-names evoke few memories of Indians or Colonists, but are inextricably associated with that brief fifty years called the Golden Age. So if you say Lattingtown or Matinecoc to a Long Islander, he will think of millionaires and mansions, and more specifically perhaps the Roaring Twenties and the final frenetic days of that Golden Age and the Gold Coast.

"What are you thinking about?" Susan asked.

"About the past, about what it must have been like, and I was wondering if I would have liked living in a great house. Did you like it?" She shrugged.

Susan and her brother, Peter, as well as her mother and father, had lived in Stanhope Hall while her grandparents were alive. You can get a lot of generations comfortably in one house if it has fifty rooms and as many servants. After Susan's grandparents died, both in the mid-1970s, the inheritance taxes that existed then effectively closed down Stanhope Hall as a fully staffed estate, though Susan's father and mother continued on there until the price of heating oil quadrupled, and they headed off to a warmer climate. I asked again, "Did you like it?"

"I don't know. It was all I knew. I thought everyone lived like that… as I got older, I realized that not everyone had horses, maids, gardeners, and a nanny." She laughed. "Sounds stupid." She thought awhile. "But without sounding all pyschobabbly, I would have liked to have seen more of my parents." I didn't respond. I had seen enough of her parents, William and Charlotte, during the years they played lord and lady of Stanhope Hall. Susan's grandparents, Augustus and Beatrice, were alive when we first married and moved into Susan's wedding gift – deeded solely in her name as I have indicated. Her grandparents were old then, but I had the impression they were decent people, concerned for the welfare of their dwindling staff, but never really coming to terms with the dwindling money.

I asked Susan once, in perhaps a tactless moment, where the Stanhope money had originally come from. She had replied, truthfully I think, "I don't know. No one as far as I know ever actually did anything for it. It just existed on paper, in big ledger books that my father kept locked in the den." Susan can be somewhat vague about money like many of these people. I suppose the definition of old money is money whose origins, whereabouts, and amounts are only dimly understood. But from 1929 through the Depression, the war, and the ninety-percent tax rates of the forties and fifties, there was less and less of this paper, and it finally vanished as mysteriously as it had first appeared. Susan, as I indicated, is not poor, though I don't know how much she is worth. But neither is she fabulously wealthy as her grandparents were. I asked her, "How do you feel about a man like Bellarosa being an illegal millionaire, while most of the Stanhope money was lost through legal taxation?" She shrugged. "My grandfather used to say, 'Why shouldn't I give half my money to the American people? I got all of it from them.'"

I smiled. "That's very progressive." On the other hand, some of the rich managed their assets and tax planning with far more care than the Stanhopes, and they are still rich, albeit in a quieter way. Others of the rich around here, the Astors, Morgans, Graces, Woolworths, Vanderbilts, Guests, Whitneys, and so on, were so unbelievably buried in money that nothing short of a revolution would put a dent in their fortunes.

I said, "Do you ever feel you were cheated? I mean, if you were born, let's say, eighty years ago, you would have lived your life like an empress." "What good does it do to think about it? None of the people I know who are in my circumstances think like that."

It's true that Susan doesn't talk much about life at Stanhope Hall. It's considered bad form among those people to bring up the subject of estate life with outsiders, and even spouses can be outsiders if they don't have an estate in their past. Sometimes, however, the rich and former rich can be prompted to talk if they don't think you're being judgemental or taking notes for publication. I inquired, "Did you have a groom and stableboy for the horses?" "Yes."

The 'yes' came out sounding like, "Of course, you idiot. Do you think I mucked out the stables?" I then asked, "Did your grandparents see many of the old crowd? Did they entertain?"

She nodded. "There were a few parties." She volunteered, "Grandfather would invite a hundred or so people at Christmas, and they would all dance in the ballroom. In the summer, he would have one or two parties out on the terrace and under tents." She added, "The old crowd would sometimes gather in the library and go through photo albums."

We drove in silence awhile. There wasn't much more I was going to get out of Susan.

George Allard is a better source of information whenever I get interested in the subject of the old Gold Coast. George's stories are mostly anecdotal, such as the one about Mrs Holloway, who kept chimpanzees in the sitting room of Foxland, her estate in Old Westbury. From George, you can piece together what life was like between the world wars, whereas Susan's stories are mostly childhood memories of a time when the party was long over. George will sometimes tell me a story about Susan as a child that he thinks is funny, but that I find is a clue to my wife's personality.

Susan, by all accounts, was a precocious, snotty little bitch who everyone thought was bright and beautiful. That hasn't changed much, but the extroverted young woman I first met has become increasingly moody and withdrawn over the years. She lives more in her own world as the world around her closes in. I would not describe her as unhappy, but rather as someone who is trying to decide if it's worth the effort to be unhappy. On the other hand, she is not unhappy with me, and I think we're good for each other.

Regarding our current lifestyle, like many other people around here, we enjoy the good life, though as I said, we live among the ruins of a world that was once far more opulent. Susan, I should point out, can afford to provide us with more hired help, gardeners, maids, even a stableboy (preferably an old gent), but by mutual and silent agreement we live mostly within my income, which, while extravagant by most American standards, does not allow for live-in servants in this overpriced part of the world. Susan is a good sport about doing some house and garden chores, and I don't feel insecure or inadequate regarding my inability to move into Stanhope Hall and hire fifty servants. Susan asked me, "What beach do you want to make love on?"

"One without razor clams. I had a serious accident once." "Did you, now? That must have been before my time. I don't remember that. What was her name?"

"Janie."

"Not Janie Tillman?"

"No."

"You'll have to tell me about it later."

"All right." In our pursuit of fidelity within a twenty-year-old marriage, Susan and I, in addition to the historical romances, sometimes talk about a premarital lover as part of our foreplay. I read in a book once that it was all right to do this, to get the juices going, but afterward, as you're both lying there, one partner is usually sullen and the other is sorry he or she was so graphic. Well, if you play with fire to get heat, you can also get burned. I asked, "What did you do today?"

"I planted those vegetables that what's-his-name gave us." She laughed.

"In the rain?"

"Don't they like the rain? I planted them in one of the old flower terraces in front of Stanhope Hall."

I thought old Cyrus Stanhope, as well as McKim, Mead, and White, must be spinning in their graves.

I turned into an unmarked road that I don't think I was ever on before. A good many of the roads on the North Shore are unmarked – some say on purpose – and they seem to go nowhere and often do.

A modern map of this area would not show you where the great estates are; there is no Gold Coast version of the Hollywood Star Map, but there did once exist privately circulated maps of this area that showed the location of the estates and their owners' names. These maps were for use by the gentry in the event your butler handed you an invitation reading something like, "Mr and Mrs William Holloway request the pleasure of your company for dinner at Foxland, the seventeenth of May at eight o'clock."

Anyway, I have one of these old estate maps in my possession. Mine is dated 1928, and I can see on it the location of all the estates, great and small, in that year along with the estate owners' names written in. I said to Susan, "You never met the original owners of Alhambra, did you? The Dillworths?" "No, but they were friends of my grandparents. Mr Dillworth was killed in World War Two. I think I remember Mrs Dillworth, but I'm not sure. I do remember when the Vanderbilts lived there in the fifties."

It seemed to me that the large Vanderbilt clan had built or bought half the houses on the Gold Coast at one time or another, allowing realtors to say of any great house with fifty-percent accuracy, "Vanderbilts lived here." I asked, "Then the Barretts bought it?"

"Yes. Katie Barrett was my best friend. But they lost the house to the bank or the tax people in 1966, the year I went to college. They were the last owners until you-know-who."

I nodded, then said to Lady Stanhope, baitingly, "My grandfather once told me that the coming of the millionaires to Long Island was not looked on very favourably by the people who had been here for centuries before. The old Long Island families, such as my own, thought these new people – including the Stanhopes – were crass, immoral, and ostentatious." I smiled. Susan laughed. "Did the Sutters and Whitmans look down on the Stanhopes?"

"I'm certain they did."

"I think you're a worse snob than I am."

"Only with the rich. I'm very democratic with the masses." "Sure. So, how will we treat Mr Bellarosa? As a crass, unprincipled interloper, or as an American success story?"

"I'm still sorting it out."

"Well, I'll help you, John. You're as relieved as I am that Alhambra will not become a hundred little haciendas, which is very selfish but understandable. On the other hand, you'd have rather had someone next door whose crimes were not so closely associated with his fortune."

"There are people out there who earn their money honestly."

"I know there are. They live in Levittown."

"Very cynical."

Susan changed the subject. "I heard from Carolyn and Edward today."

"How are they?" I asked.

"Fine. They missed us at Easter."

"It seemed different without them," I said.

"Easter certainly was different this year," Susan pointed out. I let that alone. As for my children, Carolyn is a freshman at Yale, my alma mater, and I still can't get used to the fact that Yale has women there now. Carolyn went to St Paul's, also my alma mater, and that's even harder to picture. But the world is changing, and for women, perhaps, it's a slightly better place. Edward is a senior at St Paul's, which appeals to my male ego, but he's been accepted at Susan's alma mater, Sarah Lawrence. I suppose I should be happy that my children have chosen their parents' schools, but how my daughter has wound up at Yale and my son at Sarah Lawrence is beyond me. In Carolyn's case, I think she is making a statement. Edward's motives, I'm afraid, are a bit more base; he wants to get laid. I think they'll both succeed. I said, "I came home every holiday when I was at school."

"So did I, except one Thanksgiving I'd rather not discuss." She laughed, then added seriously, "They grow up faster now, John. They really do. I was so sheltered, I honestly didn't know a thing about sex or money or travel until I was ready to go to college. That's not good either."

"I suppose not." Susan actually went to a local prep school, Friends Academy here in Locust Valley, an old and prestigious school run by Quakers. She lived at home and was driven to school in a chauffeured car. Many of the rich around here favour the austere atmosphere of Friends for their children, hoping, I suppose, that their heirs will learn to enjoy simple pleasures in the event the market crashes again. Indeed we all try to raise our children as if our past experiences are important for their future, but they rarely are. Anyway, I'm glad Susan learned austerity between nine A.M. and three P.M. on school days. It may come in handy.

Susan said, "Your mother called. They're back in Southampton." My parents are not the type to call to announce their movements. They once took a trip to Europe, and I didn't know about it until months afterwards. Obviously, there was more to the phone call.

Susan added, "She was curious about your Easter behaviour. I told her you were just having a few bad days."

I grunted noncommittally. My mother, Harriet, is a rather cold but remarkable woman, very liberated for her day. She was a professor of sociology at nearby C.W. Post College, which was once the estate of the Post family of cereal fame. The college has always been somewhat conservative, drawing its student body from the surrounding area, and Harriet was usually in some sort of trouble for her radical views in the 1950s.

She didn't have to work, of course, as my father did well financially, and there were people at Post who wished she didn't work. But by the 1960s the world had caught up with Harriet, and she came into her own, becoming one of the campus heroes of the counterculture.

I can remember her when I was home from St Paul's and Yale, running all over the place in her VW Beetle, organizing this and that. My father was liberal enough to approve, but husband enough to be annoyed.

Time, however, marches on, and Harriet Whitman Sutter got old. She now disapproves of four-letter words, loose sex, drugs, and sons who don't shave or wear ties at Easter. And this is the same lady who approved of co-ed streaking. I said to Susan, "I'll call her tomorrow."

Susan and my mother get along, despite their social and economic differences.

They have a lot more in common than they know.

We slipped back into a companionable silence, and I turned my attention back to the scenery. It seemed to me that a traveller who put down his road map and looked out his window as he drove along these country lanes would not mistake his surroundings for some west-of-the-Hudson backwater, but would in some socially instinctive way know that he had entered a vast private preserve of wealth.

And as this traveller's car navigated the bends and turns of these tree-lined roads, he might see examples of Spanish architecture, like Alhambra, half-timbered Tudor manors, French chateaux, and even a white granite beaux-arts palace like Stanhope Hall, sitting in the American countryside, out of time and out of place, as if the aristocracy from all over Western Europe for the last four hundred years had been granted a hundred acres each to create an earthly nirvana in the New World. By 1929, most of Long Island's Gold Coast was divided into about a thousand great and small estates, fiefdoms, the largest concentration of wealth and power in America, probably the world. As we drove along a narrow lane, bordered by estate walls, I saw six riders coming from the opposite direction. Susan and I waved as we passed, and they returned the greeting.

She said, "That reminds me, I want to move the stable now that the good weather is here."

I didn't reply.

"We'll need a sideline variance."

"How do you know?"

"I checked. The stable will be within a hundred yards of you-know-who's property."

"Damn it."

"I have the paperwork from Village Hall. We need plans drawn up, and we'll have to get you-know-who to sign off on it."

"Damn it."

"No big deal, John. Just send it to him with a note of explanation." It's hard to argue with a woman to whom you want to make love, but I was going to give it my best shot. "Can't you find another place for the stable?" "No."

"All right." The idea of asking Frank Bellarosa for a favour didn't appeal to me in the least, especially after I had just told him to take his business elsewhere. I said, "Well, it's your property and your stable. I'll get the paperwork done, but you take care of you-know-who." "Thank you." She put her arm around me. "Are we friends?"

"Yes." But I hate your stupid horses.

"John, you look so good when you're naked. Now that the weather is warm, can I paint you outdoors in the nude?"

"No." Susan has four main passions in life: horses, landscape painting, gazebos, and sometimes me. You know about the horses and about me. The Gazebo Society is a group of women who are dedicated to the preservation of the Gold Coast's gazebos. Why gazebos? you ask. I don't know. But in the spring, summer, and fall, they have these elaborate picnic lunches in various gazebos, and they all dress in Victorian or Edwardian clothes, complete with parasols. Susan is not a joiner, and I can't fathom why she hangs around with these ditsy people, but the sceptic in me says the whole thing is a front for something. Maybe they tell dirty jokes, or exchange hot gossip, or aid and abet marital infidelities. But maybe they just have lunch. Beats me.

As for the landscape painting, this is for real. Susan has gained some local notoriety for her oils. Her main subject is Gold Coast ruins, in the style of the Renaissance artists who painted the classical Roman ruins, with the fluted columns entangled with vines, and the fallen arches, and broken walls overgrown with plant life: the theme being, I suppose, nature reclaiming man's greatest architectural achievements of a vanished Golden Age. Her most famous painting is of her horse, stupid Zanzibar, who if nothing else is a magnificent-looking animal. In the painting, Zanzibar is standing in the moonlight of the crumbling glass palm court of Laurelton Hall, the former Louis C. Tiffany mansion. Susan wants to do a painting of me, in the same setting, standing naked in the moonlight. But though Susan is my wife, I'm a little shy about standing around naked in front of her. Also, I have the bizarre thought that I will come out looking like a centaur.

Anyway, Susan's clients are mostly local nouveaux riches who live in those tract mansions that cover the old estate grounds. These clients buy everything that Susan can paint and pay three to five thousand dollars a canvas. Susan does two or three landscapes a year and supports her two horses with the money. Personally, I think she could do another two or three and buy me a new Bronco.

"Why won't you pose in the nude for me?"

"What are you going to do with the picture?"

"Hang it over the fireplace. I'll give you another three inches and we'll have a cocktail party, and you'll be surrounded by admiring women." She laughed. "Get hold of yourself." I headed in the direction of Hempstead Bay, where there are a few secluded beaches, on most of which I've had at least one sexual experience. There's something about the salt air that gets me cranked up. I thought about Susan's paintings of the old estates and wondered why she chose to record and preserve this crumbling world in oil, and how she makes it look so alluring on canvas. It struck me that a painting of an intact mansion would be dull and ordinary, but there was an awful beauty to these fallen palaces. On the lands of these estates one can still see marble fountains, statuary, imitation Roman ruins such as Alhambra's, a classical love temple such as we have at Stanhope, gazebos, children's fantasy playhouses such as Susan's, teahouses, miles of greenhouses, pool pavilions, water towers built to look like watchtowers, and balustraded terraces overlooking land and sea. All of those lonely structures lend a whimsical air to the landscape, and it seems as if someone had built and abandoned a storyland theme park many years ago. Susan's paintings make me see these familiar ruins in a different way, which, I suppose, is the mark of a good artist. I asked her, "Have you ever painted a man in the nude?"

"I'm not telling."

I noticed the gates to the old Foxland estate ahead, now part of the New York Technical University. A number of these larger estates have become schools, conference centres, and rest homes. A few intact estates are owned by the county, as Lester and I discussed, and some of these have been restored for visitors, instant museums of a period in American history not quite dead yet. Among the most enduring and useful structures of this Golden Age are the gatehouses and the staff cottages for gardeners, chauffeurs, and other servants who did not traditionally live in the great house. These quaint quarters are now occupied by former servants whose masters were good enough to deed them away or give them rent free – as in the case of the Allards – as a reward for past service, or occupied by people who have bought or rented them. They are quite desirable as homes or artist studios, and a stone gatehouse such as Stanhope's can sell for several hundred thousand dollars. If the Allards ever move on to their final, final reward, William Stanhope will sell the gatehouse. An estate's guesthouse is an even more desirable home for a modern upper-middle-class family – perhaps because there are no working-class associations. It is in Stanhope's guesthouse, of course where Susan and I live, which might be appropriate for me, but is a long step down for her. As we came to another new subdivision, Susan said, "Sometimes I can't remember the names of the old estates or their locations or what they were called, unless the builder uses the same name for his development." She nodded toward the new homes going up in an open horse meadow surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. "What was that place called?" she asked.

"That was part of the hedges, but I can't remember the last owner's name."

"Neither can I," she said. "Is the house still there?"

"I think it was torn down. It was behind those blue spruces." "That's right," Susan agreed. "It was an English manor house. The Conroys owned it. I went to school with their son, Philip. He was cute." "I think I remember him. Sort of a twit with terminal acne."

Susan punched my arm."You're the twit."

"I have clear skin." We headed due west now, and as the last rays of the sun came through the windshield, I put the visor down. Sometimes these rides are pleasant, sometimes they aren't. I asked, "Have you thought about moving?" "No."

"Susan… I give this place another ten years and you won't recognize it. The Americans are coming. Do you understand what I mean?" "No."

"The hamburger chains, shopping malls, twenty-four-hour convenience stores, pizza parlours – they're here already. There will come a day when there won't be a secluded beach left for us to make love on. Wouldn't you rather remember everything as it was?"

She didn't reply and I knew it was no use trying to introduce reality into her world.

In some ways, this place reminds me of the post-Civil War South, except that the decline of the Gold Coast is not the result of military operations, but of a single economic catastrophe followed by a more subtle class war. And whereas the ruined plantations of the old South were spread over a dozen states, the ruins of this fabled world are contained within an area of about ninety square miles, comprising about a third of the total area of this county. Most of this surburban county's massive population of a million and a half people are contained in the southern two-thirds, and very close by are New York's teeming eight million. These facts -the numbers, the history, the present realities of population, taxes, and land development – colour our world and explain, I hope, our collective psyches and our obsession with wanting to freeze a moment in time, any moment in time except tomorrow. I glanced again at Susan, who had her eyes closed now. Her head was still tilted back, and those magnificent pouty lips seemed to be kissing the sky. I was about to reach out and touch her when she seemed to sense my look or perhaps my thoughts, and she laid her hand on my thigh. She said, "I love you." "And I love you."

Susan caressed my thigh, and I shifted in my seat. I said, "I don't think I can make it to the beach."

"To the beach, my man."

"Yes, madame."

The sun had set now, and here and there I could make out the lights of a big house through the newly budded trees. I got my bearings and headed north through the village of Sea Cliff, then west to Garvie's Point, the former estate of Thomas Garvie, and the site of an old Indian camping ground, now returned again to nature as a wildlife preserve and an Indian museum, which was sort of ironic, I guess.

The park was closed, but I knew a way in through the adjoining Hempstead Harbor Yacht Club, where we parked the car.

I took a blanket from the trunk, and Susan and I held hands as we made our way down to the beach, a narrow strip of sand and glacial rock that lay at the base of a low cliff. The beach was nearly deserted except for a group of people a hundred yards farther up who had built a fire.

There was no moon, but the sky was starry, and out on Hempstead Bay, powerboats and sailing craft headed into the yacht club or continued south toward Roslyn Harbor.

It had gotten noticeably cooler, and a land breeze rustled through the trees at the top of the cliff. We found a nice patch of sand that the outgoing tide had deposited between two large rocks at the cliff's base. It was a well-sheltered spot, and we spread out the blanket and sat looking at the water. There is something about the beach after dark that is both calming and invigorating, and the majesty of the sea and the vast sky makes anything you say sound feeble, yet any movement of the body seems graceful and divinely inspired. We undressed and made love under the stars, then lay wrapped in each other's arms in the lee of the cliff and listened to the sound of the wind through the trees above us.

After a while, we dressed and walked along the beach, hand in hand. Across the bay I could see Sands Point, once home to the Goulds, the entire Guggenheim clan, August Belmont, and one of the Astors.

When I walk this beach and look across to Sands Point, I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby, the location of whose mythical house is the subject of some local theories and literary essays. My own theory, shared by some others, is that Gatsby's house was Falaise, Harry F. Guggenheim's home in Sands Point. The colossal house that Fitzgerald described sounds like Falaise, including the coastline and high bluffs of Sands Point. Falaise is a county museum now, dark at night, but if it were lit in all its glory, I would be able to see it from here.

And on this side of the bay, up the beach on the next point of land, there is a big white colonial house which still stands and which I am i certain is that of Gatsby's lost love, Daisy Buchanan. The long pier behind Daisy's house is not there any longer, but locals confirm that it existed, and the haunting green light at the end of the pier that Gatsby would stare at from his mansion across the water – well, I've seen it from my boat on summer nights, and Susan has seen it, too – a spectral glow that seems to float above the water where the pier must have ended.

I'm not sure what that green light meant to Jay Gatsby nor what it symbolized beyond the orgiastic future. But for me, when I see it, my worries seep away into the sea mist, and I feel as I did as a child one summer night many years ago when from my father's boat I watched the harbour lights playing off the sparkling waters of Hempstead Bay. When I see the green light, I am able to recall that innocent hour, that perfect, tranquil night with its sea smells and soft breezes, and the sound of gentle swells lapping against the swaying boat, and my father taking my hand.

Susan, too, says the green light can bring on a transcendental moment for her, though she won't or can't describe it precisely.

But I want to tell my children about this; I want to tell them to find their green light, and I wish that for one magic hour on a summer's evening, a weary nation would pause and reflect, and each man and woman would remember how the world once looked and smelled and felt and how nice it was to draw such supreme comfort and security by the simple act of putting one's hand into the hand of a father or mother.

The green light that I see at the end of Daisy's vanished pier is not the future; it is the past, and it is the only comforting omen I have ever seen.

CHAPTER 13

By Wednesday, I had gotten the necessary paperwork together to apply to the Village of Lattingtown for a building permit to erect a stable on Susan's property. I did not specifically state that the stable to be built already existed on Stanhope property, as the Stanhopes, of course, owe the village, the township, and the county a lot of money, and I suppose that the part of the stables that we were going to chop off and spirit away could be considered an asset on which there are tax liens. But if it's legal to tear down structures to save taxes, I guess it's legal to move them to property on which the taxes are paid, and will, in fact, go up because of the stables. I honestly don't know how anyone functions in this society without a law degree. Even I, Harvard Law, class of '69, have trouble figuring out legal from illegal, as the laws pile up faster than garbage in the county dump.

Anyway, I also drew up the petition for the variance on which we needed Mr Frank Bellarosa's autograph. Over dinner that Wednesday night, I said to Susan, "It is customary, as you know, to hand the petition to our neighbour and chat for a while about what we intend to do."

Susan replied, "I'll take it over."

"Fine. I'd rather not."

"It's my stable. I'll take care of it. Would you please pass me the meat loaf?"

"Meat loaf? I thought it was bread pudding."

"Whatever."

I passed whatever it was to Susan and said, "I suggest you go to Alhambra tomorrow during the day, so perhaps you can meet and deal with Mrs Bellarosa, who I'm sure is not allowed to go to the bathroom without asking her husband's permission, but who can pass the petition on to II Duce, who can ask his consiglieri what to do."

Susan smiled. "Is that what you suggest, Counsellor?"

"Yes, it is."

"All right." She thought a moment. "I wonder what she's like." I thought she might be like a busty blonde, which is why I was sending Susan and not me. "Could you pass me… that over there?"

"That's spinach. I think I cooked it too long."

"I'll just have the wine."

The next day, Susan called me at my New York office and informed me, "There was no one home, but I left the papers at the gatehouse with a young man named Anthony, who seemed to comprehend that I wanted them delivered to don Bellarosa."

"All right." I asked, "You didn't say don Bellarosa, did you?"

"No. Anthony did."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. And I want George to call us don and donna from now on."

"I think I'd rather be called Sir John. See you about six-thirty." That evening, over one of Susan's special dinners – steak au poivre with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights – I remarked, "I'd call Bellarosa, but he's unlisted."

"So are we. But I wrote our phone number on my calling card." "Well… I suppose that's all right." Susan has calling cards, by the way, that say simply: Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall. This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card – or visiting card, as it is also called – is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who's around to take it. Mr Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I've used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants. As I was contemplating the importance of calling cards in modern society, the telephone rang. "I'll get it," I said. I picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. "Hello."

"Hello, Mr Sutter. Frank Bellarosa."

"Hello, Mr Bellarosa." I glanced at Susan, who had taken the opportunity to transfer my asparagus to her plate.

Bellarosa said, I'm looking at this thing here that your wife dropped off."

"Yes."

"You gonna build a stable?"

"Yes, if you have no objections."

"What do I care? Am I going to smell the horse shit?" "I don't think so, Mr Bellarosa. It's quite a distance from your house but near your property line, so I need what is called a sideline variance." "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Susan was finished with my asparagus and was eating my steak now. She doesn't have that much of an appetite for her own cooking. "Stop that." "Stop what?" asked Bellarosa.

I turned my attention back to the phone. "Nothing. So, if you have no objections, would you sign that petition and mail it in the envelope to the village? I would appreciate that."

"Why do you need my okay to do that?"

"Well, as I said, the new structure would be within a hundred yards of your property line, and the law -" "Law?" exclaimed Mr Bellarosa as if I'd used a dirty word. "Fuck the law. We're neighbours, for Christ's sake. Go ahead. I'll sign the thing." "Thank you."

"I'm looking at these plans you sent along, Mr Sutter. You need somebody to build this thing?"

"No, I sent you those plans because the… the rules require that I show you the plans – " "Yeah? Why? Hey, this thing is brick and stone. I could help you out there." "Actually… we're moving an existing stable."

"Yeah? That thing I saw the other week when I was there? That's where the horses are now?"

"Yes."

"You moving that whole fucking thing?"

"No, only part of it. You'll see by the plans -"

"Why? You could build a nice new thing for less."

"That's true. Hold on." I covered the mouthpiece and said to Susan, "Frank says we can build a nice new thing for less, and put down that fucking potato." "Language, John." She popped the last potato into her mouth. I turned back to the telephone. "The stables that you saw, Mr Bellarosa, have some historical and architectural value," I explained, wondering why I was bothering, and getting a bit annoyed that he'd drawn me into this conversation. "So," said Mr Bellarosa, "you got somebody to move that thing or not?"

"Actually, not yet. But there are some good restoration firms in the area." "Yeah? Listen. I have about a hundred greaseballs working over here trying to get this place fixed up. I'm gonna send the boss around to you on Saturday morning."

"That's very kind of you, but -"

"Hey, no problem. These guys are good. Old World craftsmen. You don't find guys like that in this country. Everybody here wants to wear a suit. You want to move a brick stable? No problem. These guys could move the Sistine Chapel down the block if the Pope gave them the go-ahead."

"Well -"

"Hey, Mr Sutter, these wops live cement. That's how they learn to walk – with a wheelbarrow. Right? The boss's name is Dominic. He speaks English. I personally guarantee his work. These guys don't fuck up. And the price is going to be right. Saturday morning. How's nine?"

"Well… all right, but – "

"Glad to help out. Just sign this thing, right?"

"Yes."

"Go have your dinner. Don't worry about it. It's done."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing."

I put the phone in the cradle and went back to the table. "No problem."

"Good."

"Is there anything left to eat?"

"No." Susan poured me some wine. "What was he saying at the end there?"

"He's sending Dominic here to look at the job."

"Who's Dominic?"

"Anthony's uncle." I sipped my wine and thought about this turn of events.

Susan asked, "Do you feel awkward now that you wouldn't take his business?" "No. I have a professional life and a private life. Professionally I won't deal with him; privately I'll deal with him only when I have to as a neighbour. Nothing more."

"Is that true?"

I shrugged. "I didn't ask him to send Dominic over. Mr Frank Bellarosa is making it difficult for us to snub him."

"He must like you. When he was in your office, did you get the impression he liked you?"

"I suppose. He thinks I'm smart."

"Well, you are."

"Sure. If I were smart, I never would have let you talk me into moving that stable, paying for half of it, and getting involved with Bellarosa." "That's true. Maybe you're not so smart."

"What's for dessert?"

"Me."

"Again? I had that last night."

"Tonight I have whipped cream on it."

"And a cherry?"

"No cherry."

On Saturday morning, Dominic arrived punctually at our back door at nine A.M. He had parked his truck on the main drive and walked the last hundred yards to our house in a light drizzle. He refused offers of coffee or a hat, so Susan and I showed him to the Bronco and we drove to the stables. Dominic was a man in his late forties, built something like a gorilla that lifts weights. He wore green work clothes, and his skin was already very sun-darkened for April. I still wasn't sure he spoke English or if he just pretended to. Susan speaks a little Italian and tried it out on Dominic, who kept looking at me as if he wanted me to translate or tell her to shut up. Anyway, we all stood in the drizzle while Dominic gave the stable a cursory inspection.

Susan tried to make sure he understood we only wanted the central part moved, not the long wings or the carriage house. "And we want this cobblestone moved, too," she said, "those stone troughs, the wrought-iron work, the slate roof. And it has to be put together the same way over there." She pointed off in the distance. "Intatto, tutto intatto. Capisce? Can you do that?" He looked at her as though she'd just questioned his manhood.

I said to Dominic, "We will take pictures of the stable from all angles." "Yes," Susan said. "I don't want it to wind up looking like the Colosseum, Dominic."

He smiled for the first time.

"How much?" I asked. That's my line.

Dominic pulled a scrap of a brown paper bag from his pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to me.

I looked at his written estimate. It wasn't exactly itemized, containing only one number as it were, but the number was about half what I thought it should be. There are, as I've discovered over the years, many forms of bribes, payoffs, and 'favours'. This was one of them. But what could I do? Susan was intent on this and so apparently was Frank Bellarosa. I said something to Dominic that I thought I'd never say to a contractor. I said, "This is too low." He shrugged. "I gotta no overhead, I gotta cheap labour."

Susan didn't bother to look at the number. She asked him, "When can you start?"

"Monday."

"Monday of what year?" she inquired.

"Monday. Monday. Day after tomorra, missus. Three weeks, we finish." Of course this seemed like a homeowner's fantasy come true, which it was. I said to Dominic, "We'll think about it."

Dominic looked at me, then said something odd. He said, "Please." He cocked his head in the direction of Alhambra.

He didn't exactly make a cutting motion across his throat, but I had the distinct impression that if Dominic went back to great Caesar without my okay, he was in trouble. I glanced at Susan, who seemed to be missing the subtleties here.

Susan said to me, "Oh, John, I'm not in the mood to shop around. If it's too low, give him a bonus." She laughed. "Monday, John. Capisce?" Against all my better instincts, I said to Dominic, "All right."

"Molto bene," Susan said.

Dominic looked happy to be working for us for peanuts. I said to him, "You want a cheque now?"

He waved his hand. "No, no. We worka for Mr Bellarosa. You talka ta him. Okay?"

I nodded.

Dominic said, "You taka you horses to Mr Bellarosa stable whila we work." Susan shook her head. "We have many other stables here." She motioned with her hand.

"But, missus, Mr Bellarosa stables all cleana for you. We maka lotta noise here with the jacka hammas." He demonstrated using a jackhammer and reproduced the noise quite well. Dadadadada. He added, "No gooda for you horses." That clinched it for Susan and she said, "I'll take them over Monday." We got into the Bronco, and I drove back to where Dominic's truck sat in the main drive. I left Susan in the car and walked Dominic to the truck. I asked him, "Is Mr Bellarosa home?"

He nodded.

"When you get to his house, tell him to call me."

"Okay."

I took my wallet out and handed Dominic my calling card. He examined both sides, obviously looking for a phone number. I guess the man never saw a calling card. "Mr Bellarosa has my number," I explained. "Just give him the card and tell him to call me now."

"Okay."

I took a hundred dollars from my wallet and gave it to Dominic, who shoved it into his pocket without examining either side. "Thanka you too much." We shook hands. "See you Monday." I walked back to the Bronco and drove it up to the house. Susan and I went in through the back way to the kitchen. I showed her the scrap of paper and said, "Bellarosa is subsidizing this job." She glanced at the piece of paper. "How do you know that?" "After fifteen years of getting quotes for work here and having your father tell me it's too much, I know prices."

Susan, who was in a good mood, wasn't about to be baited. She smiled, and said, "As St Jerome wrote, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth.'" There are certain advantages in a classical education, and spouting fourth-century Roman saints to make a point with your spouse may be one of them. I replied, "As a wiser man said, 'There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.'"

I poured two cups of coffee, and the phone rang. I answered it. "Hello."

"Mr Sutter."

"Mr Bellarosa."

"You all squared away there?" he asked.

"Maybe," I replied. "But I don't think he can bring the job in for that price."

"Sure he can."

"How?"

"Cheap labour, low overhead, and your materials."

I glanced at Susan, who was watching me closely, then said to Bellarosa, "All right. Whom do I pay?"

"You pay me. I'll take care of the boys."

The last thing I wanted was to have one of my cheques drawn to Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. "I'll give you cash," I said.

He replied, "I take cash for a lot of things, Mr Sutter, but I thought people like you want a record of everything."

Not everything, Frank. I responded, "It's still legal to pay in cash in this country. I will need a paid bill, from Dominic, on contractor's letterhead." Bellarosa laughed. "Now I got to get letterheads printed up for the guy. That's how you get into overhead."

"Perhaps you can get a rubber stamp for his brown paper bags." Bellarosa was in a merry mood and laughed again. "Okay. You need something to show capital improvement for the government if you sell or something, right? Okay. No problem. Hey, what are these cards your wife and you got with nothing on them?"

"They have our names on them," I said. "That's how you know they're ours." "Yeah. But then it just says Stanhope Hall. Where's the phone number, the zip, and all that?"

"They're calling cards," I informed him.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. It's an old custom."

"Yeah?"

"Anyway," I continued, back on the subject, "I just wanted to let you know that Dominic seems very professional and was very pleasant to deal with." So don't kill him.

"Good. He knows his bricks and cement. It's in the blood. You know? You seen the Baths of Caracalla? That stuff impresses me. They don't build like that anymore. Two thousand years, Mr Sutter. You think this shit around here is going to be around in two thousand years?"

"We'll see. Also about the horses, thank you for the offer, but we'll have them boarded while – " "Nah. Why throw your money away? I got a stable here. It's all ready, and it's nice and close by for you. I boarded out my dog once and it died." "But we both went to boarding school," I reminded him, "and we're both still alive."

He thought that was very funny. I don't know why I feel compelled to use my razor-sharp wit on him. Maybe because he laughs.

He was still laughing as he said, "Hey, I got to tell my wife that one. Okay, look, Mr Sutter, I want you to know I got no hard feelings about the other thing. Business is business, and personal is personal." "That's true." I looked at Susan, who was reading the local non-newspaper at the kitchen table. I said to Bellarosa, "My wife and I would like to thank you for your help in this and for signing the variance petition." "Hey, no problem. I noticed that thing was in your wife's name." I hesitated, then replied, "This is her property. My estate is in the shop for repairs."

Ha, ha, ha. I hoped he was writing these down. Then, being about fifty-percent certain the phone was tapped, and Mr Mancuso or someone like him was listening in, I said distinctly, "If the job goes over cost, I insist on paying the difference. I will not accept a low bid, even as a personal favour, Mr Bellarosa, because you owe me no favours, and I owe you no favours, and it would be good if we didn't get into owing favours."

"Mr Sutter, you gave me some good advice the other day. I don't see no bill, so that was a favour. I'm repaying the favour."

I knew that I should watch my words, not only because of Mr Mancuso, but because of Mr Frank Bellarosa, who, like myself, makes his living with the spoken word, and who would not hesitate to use anything I said against me later. I asked him, "Are we all evened up on favours?"

"Sure. If you let me keep the horse shit for my garden. Hey, I got a calling card – NYNEX. But I don't understand your calling card. I'm looking at it. What's it do?"

"It's… it's hard to explain…" By now, of course, I was sorry I had played my silly joke with Dominic. But Susan actually started it. I said, "It's like a… like a handshake."

There was another silence as he processed this. He said, "Okay. My best regards to your wife, and you have a good day, Mr Sutter."

"And you, too, Mr Bellarosa." I hung up.

Susan looked up from her newspaper. "What is like a handshake?"

"A calling card."

She made a face. "That's not quite it, John."

"Then you explain it to him." I remained standing and picked up my coffee mug from the table. "I don't like this."

"You made the coffee."

"This situation, Susan. Are you mentally attending?"

"Don't get snotty with me. You use too many pronouns and too few antecedents.

I've told you that."

I felt a headache coming on.

Susan said in a kinder tone, "Look, I understand your misgivings. I really do. And I am in complete agreement that you should not do any legal work for that man. However, we can't help but have some social interaction with him. He's our next-door neighbour."

"Next-door? We live on two-hundred-acre estates. People in Manhattan don't even know the people in the next apartment."

"This is not Manhattan," she informed me. "We know all our neighbours here."

"That's not true."

"I know them." Susan stood and poured herself more coffee. "Also, I don't want to give him or anyone the impression we are… well, bigoted. What if he were black and we were snubbing him? How would that look?" "He's not black. He's Italian. He's arrived. So now we can snub him because we don't like him, not because of his race or religion. That's what makes this country great, Susan."

"But you do like him."

There was a silence in the kitchen, and I could hear that damned regulator clock tick-tocking.

"I'm your wife, John. I can tell."

I said finally, "I don't dislike him." I added, "But he's a criminal, Susan."

She shrugged. "So people say. But if he weren't a criminal, would you like him?"

"Possibly." I'm not a bigot or too much of a snob. Half my friends are Catholic. Some are Italian. The Creek is half Catholic. In fact, many of the racial, religious, and ethnic barriers around here have tumbled, which is good because in some odd way these new people have brought a new vitality to a dying world, like a blood transfusion. But as I said, you can assimilate only so much new blood, and the new blood, to continue the analogy, has to be compatible. In my world, certain types of occupations are okay, and some are not. Also, golf, tennis, boating, and horses are taken seriously, whereas theatre, concerts, fine arts, and such are okay, but not taken seriously unless one happens to be Jewish. It is still mostly a Wasp world in form and substance, if not in actual numbers.

Catholics and Jews are okay, you understand, if they act okay. Harry F. Guggenheim, one of the wealthiest men in America in his day, a friend of Charles Lindbergh, a staunch Republican and a Jew, was okay. The Guggenheim family opened the door through which other Jews have passed. Before the last war, Catholics with French names such as the Belmonts and Du Ponts were okay, Irish Catholics were okay if they said they were Scotch-Irish Protestants, and Italians were okay if they were counts or dukes or had names that sounded as if they could be.

These days, Italians, Slavs, Hispanics, and even blacks are accepted, though on an individual basis. The new people, the Iranians, Arabs, Koreans, and Japanese, are still hanging out there in limbo, and no one seems to know if they're going to be okay or not.

But what I do know is this: Frank the Bishop Bellarosa of Alhambra is not okay.

I said to Susan, "It's not personal, it's business. His business." "I understand." She added, "I'm discovering that he's quite famous. Everyone knows who he is. We have a celebrity next door."

"Lucky us." I finished my coffee. "By the way, if you should ever have occasion to speak to him on the phone, remember that his telephone conversations are probably being recorded by various law enforcement agencies." She looked at me with surprise. "Is that true?"

"I'm not certain, but it's a strong possibility. However, since neither of you will be discussing drug buys or contract murders, I only mention that so you don't say anything that could embarrass you if it were played back someday." "Such as what?"

"How do I know? Such as explaining what a calling card is, or discussing a new name for Alhambra. Something like that."

"I see. All right." She thought a moment. "I never even thought of his phone being tapped. I'm so naive."

Susan uses that expression once in a while, and I suppose in the ways of the world, this sheltered little rich girl is naive. But when it comes to people, she is sharp, discerning, and confident. That's her upper-class breeding. She asked me, "Did you get his telephone number?"

"No."

"Should I get it?"

"He'll give it to us when he wants us to have it."

"When will that be?"

"When he wants us to have it."

Susan stayed silent a moment, then asked me, "What does he want, John?"

"I'm not sure. Respectability, maybe."

"Maybe."

"Maybe he still wants me for a lawyer."

"Perhaps," Susan responded loyally. "You're a good attorney."

"But there must be more to it," I admitted.

There certainly must be," Susan replied. She smiled. "Maybe he wants your soul."

That turned out to be true, and he wasn't even satisfied with that.

CHAPTER 14

The next few weeks passed uneventfully, unless you consider the moving of a big brick stable an event. Susan had shot a roll of film that Monday morning, before the disassembly began, making sure to include Dominic and a dozen of his compatriots in many of the pictures. I still have those photos, and it is obvious that Susan, who is in some of the shots with those big labourers, was having as good a time as they were. There must be something about stables that sparks her libido.

Anyway, it was May, and everything was in bloom. Susan's vegetable garden had survived the early planting, the cold rains, and the wildflowers that still considered the terraced garden their turf, if you'll pardon the pun. I fully expected Mr Bellarosa to stop by one day to check on his labourers, but Susan said he never came around as far as she or the Allards knew, and if he had, she added, he'd forgotten to leave his calling card. Also, Bellarosa never telephoned, day or evening, and I was beginning to think I had overestimated his interest in us.

Susan, of course, had to drive to Alhambra to get to her horses each day, but she said she never saw the don or his wife. Susan had become quite friendly, however, with Anthony, who was apparently the full-time gatekeeper, to use a nice word for a Mafia foot soldier. Susan also reported that the Alhambra stables were in bad repair but recently cleaned, and one of Bellarosa's grounds keepers helped her with watering, feeding, and such. I, myself, felt no need to ride or feed horses, and avoided Alhambra.

Another work crew from the don's estate had already dug and poured footings to accommodate the stable, which was now a growing pile of brick and slate near the pond. Bellarosa's men and vehicles used the service entrance and service roads, of course, and we saw little of them unless we took ourselves to the job sites. And the more I saw of this work – ten to twenty men, eight to ten hours a day, six days a week – the more I realized I had gotten too good a deal on the price. But in some husbandly way, I was happy to make my wife happy. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not shifting the blame for this whole episode to her. We are partners in life, and we are each aware of our responsibilities to each other, to ourselves, and for our actions. In fact, people like us are locked into cages of responsibilities and correct actions, which, while offering protection, also make us easy prey to people who understand that we can't get out of the cage.

George Allard, I should mention, was not happy about the stable business, nor did I think he would be. But he never said anything critical, of course, he just asked questions like, "Do you think we can plant a shrubbery to fill in the empty space between the two stable wings, sir?"

Not a bad idea. With the main section of the structure gone – the most architecturally interesting part – the two long wings looked forlorn, almost institutional. I might send a picture to William Stanhope of the result of his half-assed gift to his daughter, and pass on George's suggestion of shrubs so that this place will still show well to prospective buyers. Not that I care, but George does, and it's my job.

George, incidentally, bugged the workers and hung around the job, picking up their paper trash and beer cans, and generally being a nuisance. Susan told me that she once saw one of the men playfully measuring George with a ruler as two other men were digging a 'grave'. These were, indeed, the don's men. Anyway, I rarely went to the job site, though when I did, everyone was polite and respectful. The Italians, I find, are heavily into respect, and I guess any friend of the Padrone's is due respect. Susan visited the job at least once a day, and I had the feeling her visits were welcome. She has an easygoing manner with working men, the opposite of the Lady Stanhope routine she pulls on near peers. I watched from a distance once as she moved around the job site, and the men looked at her as if she were hot antipasto. Italian men are not terribly subtle. Many women would feel intimidated by a dozen bare-chested labourers. Susan, you know, enjoys it.

Anyway, one morning during the week, I walked to the stables to see what progress was being made. There were a half dozen men there already, though it wasn't yet eight A.M.

I watched as the men removed the last of the bricks, painstakingly chipped off the old mortar, and loaded them carefully onto a flatbed truck. What remained now of the middle section of the stables was the old wooden stalls, which would be broken up and carted away, and the cobblestone floor which would be laid in the reconstructed stable. Also, to the left was the exposed tack room, and to the right was the blacksmith shop, looking very odd with no walls or roof, and with its anvil, furnace, and bellows sitting now outdoors. I hadn't seen the blacksmith shop in fifteen years or more, and no one had used it for at least seventy years.

Overhanging the roofless shop was the old chestnut tree. I don't know if a chestnut tree near a blacksmith shop is simply tradition, or if its spreading branches had the practical purpose of providing shade for the smithy in the summer. In either case, blacksmiths built their shops under the spreading chestnut tree. But in this land of make-believe, I know that Stanhope's architects first placed the stable where they wanted it, then transplanted the giant chestnut tree in front of the blacksmith's door. Tradition, Gold Coast style.

But, anyway, I saw now that the tree was not leafed out as it should have been by this time of year. It was, in fact, dying, as if, I thought, it understood now that the last seventy years had not been simply a pause, but the end. Well, perhaps I was in a mystical mood that May morning, but the tree had looked fine last summer, and I'm good at spotting tree problems. I wish I were as good at spotting my own problems.

I walked over to one of the men and asked, "Dominic?" The man pointed in the general direction of Stanhope Hall, so I started off toward the mansion. As I came to the rise in the main drive, Stanhope Hall came into view, and I could see Dominic standing in front of the three-storey-high portico, looking up at the house, with his hands on his hips. I hesitated to make the two-hundred-yard trek, especially in suit and tie, and with a ten A.M. appointment in the city, but something told me to see what Dominic was up to.

He heard me approaching on the gravel drive and came part way to meet me.

"Hello," I said. "You like this house?"

"Madonna," he replied. "It's magnificent."

Coming from a native-born Italian and a master mason, I took that as a high compliment. I asked, "Do you want to buy it?"

He laughed.

"Cheap," I added.

"Cheapa, no cheapa I no gotta the money."

"Me neither. Is it well built?" I inquired.

He nodded. "It's beautiful. All carva granite. Fantastic." Of course, Dominic may have had only an artistic interest in the house, but I wondered how he even knew it was back here. I looked him in the eye. "Perhaps Mr Bellarosa would like to buy it."

He shrugged.

"Is Mr Bellarosa at home?"

Dominic nodded.

"Did he ask you to look it over?"

"No."

"Well, you tell him it will last two thousand years." I put my hand on Dominic's shoulder and turned him around as I pointed. "Go through that grove of plum trees and you will see a Roman temple. You know Venus?" "Sure."

"She's in the temple." I added, "She has magnificent tits and a fantastic ass."

He laughed a bit uncomfortably and glanced at me.

I patted his back. "Go on. It is very beautiful, very Roman." He looked sceptical, but shrugged and started off toward the sacred grove. I called after him, "And take a walk in the hedge maze." I headed back up the drive and paused at the terraced garden that Susan had chosen for her vegetables. The seedlings were six to eight inches high now, the rows free of weeds and wildflowers. At the base of the terrace's marble retaining wall, I saw a large empty fertilizer bag. Susan was tending her garden well.

I continued back toward my house. I wasn't completely surprised that Frank Bellarosa would be interested in Stanhope Hall. It was, after all, an Italianate house, something that would strike his fancy and fit his mental image of a palazzo more so, perhaps, than the stucco villa of Alhambra. But Stanhope Hall is about three times the size of Alhambra, and I couldn't conceive of Bellarosa's having enough money to abandon his new house and start over again. No, I'm not naive, and I know how much money is in organized crime, but only a fraction of it can surface.

For the past few weeks, I've been sending my New York secretary to the public library to gather information on Mr Frank Bellarosa. From the newspaper and magazine articles that she has come back with, I've pieced together a few interesting facts about the reputed boss of New York's largest crime family. To wit: He recently moved into a Long Island estate. But I knew that. I also discovered that he owns a limousine service, and several florists that I suppose he keeps busy with funerals. He owns a trash-hauling business, a restaurant supply company, a construction company, with which I assumed I was doing business, and the HRH Trucking Company, who are the recorded owners of Alhambra. Those enterprises, I suppose, are where the legitimate money comes from. But I strongly suspect, as does the DA, that Frank Bellarosa is a partner in, or owner of, several other enterprises that are not registered with the Better Business Bureau.

But could he buy Stanhope Hall? And if he did, would he live there? What was this guy up to?

I got back to my house and took my briefcase from the den. As it was getting late, and parking at the station was tight, I asked Susan for a ride to the train.

On the way there, she asked, "Anything wrong this morning?"

"Oh… no. Just deep in thought."

We reached the train station in Locust Valley with a few minutes to spare.

Susan asked, "When will you be home?"

"I'll catch the four-twenty." This is commuter talk and means that, barring a major Long Island Railroad horror show, I'd be at the Locust Valley station at 5:23. "I'll catch a cab home." This is husband talk for, "Will you pick me up?" "I'll pick you up," Susan said. "Better yet, meet me at McGlade's and I'll buy you a drink. Maybe even dinner if you're in a better mood." "Sounds good." Susan was all lovey-dovey the last few weeks, and I didn't know if that was a result of my Easter crack-up or because her dream of uniting her stables with her property was coming true. I used to understand the opposite sex when I was younger, about five or six years old, but they have become less understandable over the last forty years. I said, "Your garden looks good." "Thank you. I don't know why we never planted vegetables before."

"Maybe because it's easier to buy them in cans."

"But it's exciting to watch them grow. I wonder what they are?"

"Didn't you mark them? They were marked on the flats."

"Oh. What should I do?"

"Nothing. I guess they know what they are. But I can tell you, you got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant." "Really?"

"Trust me." I heard the train whistle. "See you." We kissed, and I left the car and walked onto the platform as the train pulled in.

On the journey into Manhattan, I tried to sort things out that were not making sense. Bellarosa's silence for one thing, while welcome, was slightly unnerving in some odd way.

But then I thought of those stories of Mussolini keeping the crowds waiting for hours and hours in the hot Italian sun until they were delirious with fatigue, and half insane with anticipation. And then, as the sun was setting, he would arrive, and the crowd would weep and throw flowers and shout themselves hoarse, their frenzy mounting into near hysteria.

But they were Italians. I am not. If Bellarosa was playing a psychological game, he was playing it with the wrong person.

As it turned out, I didn't have long to wait before II Duce decided to show himself.

The train was on time, and at 5:23 I stepped onto the platform at Locust Valley, walked across Station Plaza, and entered McGlade's. This is a good Irish pub on weekends, a businessman's lunch place during the week, and on Monday to Friday, from about five to seven P.M., it is sort of a decompression chamber for strung-out commuters.

Susan was at the bar having a drink with a woman whom she introduced to me as Tappy or something, a member of the Gazebo Society who was waiting for her husband, who had apparently missed his train. By the look of the woman, her husband had been missing trains since about three P.M. There are always more than a few women in this place around this time who seem to be waiting for husbands who can't seem to catch trains. Some of these ladies do sometimes go home with some husband or other. Anyway, I made a mental note to do some research on the Gazebo Society.

Susan and I excused ourselves and moved to a high-backed booth that she had reserved. Susan had on a very nice clingy, red, knit dress that I thought was a little too dressy for early evening at McGlade's Pub, but I supposed that she didn't want to underdress with me in a three-piece pinstripe, and she did look good across the table.

As we were finishing our simple but tasteless dinner, I said, "The chef must have your recipe for mashed potatoes."

She smiled. "Thank you. But I thought these were a little raw and lumpy."

That's what I meant, but I said, "Well, I'm going to have dessert tonight."

"Good. How about cannoli and some espresso?"

"They don't have that in an Irish pub," I pointed out.

"And maybe a little sambuca."

"Oh, no, Susan. No, no, no."

"Yes. Anna Bellarosa called me this afternoon. She would like us there for coffee. About eight. I said yes."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Because you would have said no, no, no."

I realized what the dress was all about now. "I am not going." "Oh, look, John, this is better than doing dinner or some beastly Easter thing with lamb parts and a house full of paesanos."

"Full of what?"

"Let's go and get it over with. It's easier than being evasive for the next few years."

"No, it isn't."

"John, his men are moving our stable."

"Your stable, to your land."

"We are at a distinct disadvantage. Be civil."

"I am not going to be bullied, bribed, or embarrassed into accepting a social invitation." I added, "I have a briefcase full of work tonight." I patted the briefcase beside me.

"Do it for me." She pursed those magnificent pouty lips. "Please."

"I'll think about it." I grumbled and looked at my watch. It was seven-fifteen. I called the waitress over and ordered a double scotch. We sat in the booth, me nursing my scotch and my resentment, Susan chatting about something or other. I interrupted her in mid-sentence. "Does Anna Bellarosa wear glasses?" "Glasses? How would I know? I couldn't tell over the phone."

"That's true."

"Why?"

"Just wondering." I added, "I thought I saw her someplace and wondered if she would recognize me. I saw her in town. I think she's a blonde with big hooters." "Big what?"

"Sunglasses."

"Oh… how could you know…? I'm confused."

"Me, too." I went back to my scotch. I replayed the fountain incident in my mind a few times and decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would recognize me in my pinstripes. I made a mental note not to get down on all fours and spit water.

Finally, at seven-thirty, I said to Susan, "I've been doing some background research on Mr Bellarosa. He did do time once, back in '76. Two years for tax fraud. And that is what you call the tip of the iceberg." Susan responded, "He paid his debt to society."

I nearly choked on my ice cube. "Are you serious?"

"I heard that line in an old movie once. It sounded good." "Anyway, it is alleged that Mr Bellarosa is involved in drug distribution, extortion, prostitution, bid rigging, bribery, murder conspiracy, and so on, and so forth. Additionally, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, is investigating allegations that Mr Frank Bellarosa personally murdered a man. So, do you still want to go to his house for coffee?" "John, I absolutely must see what they've done to Alhambra."

"Will you be serious a moment?"

"Sorry."

"Listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? I am a law-abiding citizen, and I will not abide criminals."

"I hear you. Now listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? Tax fraud? Bill Turner, one year, suspended sentence. Bid rigging? Dick Conners, your former golfing partner, two years for highway bid rigging. Drugs? I'll name you eight users with whom we socialize. And who is that lawyer you used to sail with who embezzled clients' funds?"

Properly chastised, I bowed my head into my scotch and finished it. "All right, Susan, so moral corruption is rampant. It just doesn't seem so bad when it's done by the right sort of people." I chuckled to show I was joking. "What a pompous ass you are sometimes. But at least you know it." "Yes." I stayed silent for a while and listened to the ambient sounds of the nearby bar. The shell-shocked commuters were straggling out, and the singles had not yet arrived for the mating game. It was the quiet hour. Tabby or Tappy, I noticed, was still waiting for her husband, who, if he existed at all, was probably on a business trip out of town. Like all married people, I have often considered what it would be like to be single again.

This thought, for some reason, made me recall my cousin-by-marriage, the delicious Terri, wife of the brainless Freddie, who had indeed called about her will, and we have arranged a lunch date in the city next week. Around here, when you have a suburban office and a suburban client, yet still meet in the city for lunch, then there's more going on than lunch. However, I had already resolved to stick to business with Terri. But someday, my idiotic flirtations are going to get me in trouble. Beryl Carlisle is another case in point. I've seen her at The Creek a few times since I cast lustful looks at her last month. When I see her now, she looks at me as if she wants me to look at her lustfully again. But I'm fickle. And loyal. No Terris for me, no Beryls, no Sally Anns, and no Sally Graces. My wife is the only woman that keeps my interest up. Also, I'm chicken. Somebody had put money in the jukebox, and his or her preference was for fifties tunes. The sound of The Skyliners, singing 'Since I Don't Have You', filled the nearly empty bar. The song brought back memories of a time that I suppose was more innocent, certainly less frightening.

I reached across the table and took Susan's hand. I said, "Our world is shrinking and changing around us, and here we are in the hills like some sort of vanquished race, performing the old rituals and observing the ancient customs, and sometimes, Susan, I think we're ludicrous."

She squeezed my hand. "Here's another St Jerome for you – 'The Roman world is falling, but we will hold our heads erect.'"

"Nice one."

"Ready to go?"

"Yes. Do I kiss his ring?"

"A handshake will be sufficient." She added, "Think of the evening as a challenge, John. You need a challenge."

This was true. Challenge and adventure. Why can't some men be content with a warm fire and a hot wife? Why do men go to war? Why did I go to Alhambra to visit the dragon? Because I needed a challenge. In retrospect, I should have stayed in McGlade's and challenged Susan to a videogame of Tank Attack.