Gold Coast

CHAPTER 18

We did not have the Bellarosas to our house the next evening as Anna suggested. In fact, as far as I knew, we had no immediate plans to see them again. Susan is the social secretary in our house and keeps a leather-bound calendar as her mother did. The Stanhopes did, at one time, have an actual social or private secretary, and I suppose the art has been passed down. I'm not very good at social planning, so I suppose I've allowed Susan to take full charge. I don't even think I have veto power anymore, as you might have noticed. So, regarding the Bellarosas, I was waiting for word from my resident Emily Post. Susan had begun her painting of Alhambra's palm court, and that fact, plus the fact that her horses were still there, took Susan to Alhambra nearly every day. Susan, by the way, had decided on oils instead of water, so I knew this was going to be about a six-week project.

Susan Stanhope Sutter and Mrs Anna Bellarosa seemed to be forming a tentative relationship, perhaps even a genuine friendship according to Susan. This relationship, I was certain, was encouraged by Frank Bellarosa, who not only wanted his wife to have friends in the area, but also wanted her to get off his back about the move from Brooklyn to this dangerous frontier. Susan barely mentioned Frank, and I never inquired after him. If I pictured him at all in this threesome, it was as a busy man who watched Susan set up her easel for a few minutes, jollied the two women along, and kept to himself for the rest of the day – or more likely, got into his limo and disappeared into the great city for a day of lawbreaking.

It is very difficult, I imagine, to run a large crime empire, especially since the emperor cannot say much over the telephone or, similarly, cannot send detailed instructions by fax or telex. Personal contact, the spoken word, handshakes, facial expressions, and hand gestures are the only way to run an underground organization, whether it be political or criminal. I recalled that the Mafia supposedly had its origins as an underground resistance organization during some foreign occupation of Sicily. I could certainly believe that, and that would explain why they were such a long-running hit in America. But maybe their act was getting a little old as the second millennium drew to a close. Maybe.

Susan said to me one evening, "I saw the strangest thing next door."

"What?"

"I saw a man kiss Frank's hand."

"Why is that strange? My junior partners kiss my hand every morning." "Be serious, please. I'll tell you something else. Everyone who enters that house is taken into the coatroom and searched. I can hear that sound that a metal detector makes when it goes off."

"Are you searched?"

"Of course not." She asked, "Why is he so paranoid?"

"He's not. People really are out to get him. Why don't you understand that?"

"Well, I suppose I do. But it just seems so bizarre… I mean, right next door."

"Has Mr Mancuso spoken to you yet?"

"No. Will he?"

"Perhaps."

But other than that brief conversation, there wasn't much mention of Frank, as I said.

Regarding Anna, Susan was more current. She told me that Anna did not ride horses, play tennis, sail, or engage in any athletic activities. This did not surprise me. Susan tried to get Anna on Yankee, but Anna wouldn't even go near the snorting beast. Anna Bellarosa, however, was interested in painting, as it turned out. According to Susan, Anna watched and asked questions about what Susan was doing. Susan encouraged her to get an easel and paints and offered to give her lessons, but Anna Bellarosa seemed as reluctant to paint as she was to ride, or to try anything new, for that matter. As fond as Susan seemed of the woman, I had the impression she was a bit exasperated by Anna's timidness. I informed Susan, "Her reason for existence is cooking, cleaning, sex, and child care. Don't cause her any anxiety."

"But I have the feeling that her husband would like her to develop new skills." So would your husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I'd rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I'd have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?

Susan also informed me that Anna had a lot of questions about 'how you do things around here'. But I think these were more Frank's questions than Anna's. Regarding the haunting of Alhambra, Susan mentioned to me a few days after she began her canvas that Anna had gone to Brooklyn by limousine one morning and returned a few hours later with two priests. "They all looked pretty grim," Susan said. "They went around splashing holy water all over the place, and Anna was crossing herself eight times a minute." Susan added, "I sort of pretended not to notice, but it was hard to ignore them. Anna said they were blessing the house, but I think there was more to it than that."

"They're very superstitious people," I said. "You didn't upset her with any of your ghost stories, did you, Susan?"

"No, of course not. I told her there are no ghosts in Alhambra."

"Well, I'm sure she feels better now that the house is all sprinkled."

"I hope so. They gave me the shivers."

Anyway, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud, and in this case the silver lining was Italian food. Not that Susan was learning how to cook – no, she can no more cook than I can levitate. But she was bringing home a portion of the Bellarosas' evening fare almost every night: Tupperware containers heaped with ravioli, baked ziti, eggplant parmigiana, fried zucchini, and other things with unpronounceable names. I had really struck pay dirt here, and I actually looked forward to dinner at home for the first time in twenty years. Susan also brought home tomato seedlings and zucchini plants to add to her garden of radicchio, basil, green peppers, and eggplant. She never mentioned this to me, but I saw the new plants one day while I was out walking. Also, all the vegetables were now marked, correctly, I think, so we knew what we were rooting for (pardon the pun). Apparently, too, Susan had picked up some pointers from someone on vegetable gardening, because everything looked healthy, and by the end of May it seemed as though we might have a bumper crop. Stanhope Hall would now be a self-sustaining fiefdom, at least in regard to certain vegetables, and all its inhabitants – all four of us if you count the Allards – would be delivered from the ravages of scurvy and night blindness. So far, to be honest, the changes in my life that had come about as a result of the cultural contact with the neighbouring fiefdom, to continue the metaphor, were for the better. The clash of cultures had not materialized in any significant way, but there was time for that.

I had no doubt that I had established a personal relationship with Frank Bellarosa, but I was not certain of the nature of that relationship; or if I did know, I wasn't letting on to anyone, myself included, what it was. And whatever it was, it seemed to be on hold, because by the end of that month I had not heard a word from him, directly or indirectly.

As for any business relationship with him, I considered that whole episode in his library as a bit of madness. Surely he must have regretted taking me into his confidence, which was probably why I hadn't heard from him. I mean, he certainly didn't think that he had retained me as his attorney. Right? On the last Wednesday in May, Susan went to a meeting of the Gazebo Society, held at the old Fox Point waterfront estate at the end of Grace Lane. She mentioned this to me after the fact, and when I asked her if she had invited Anna Bellarosa, she said she had not and offered no explanation. I knew that this relationship with the Bellarosas was going to be a problem, and I had tried to tell that to Susan. But Susan is not the type who thinks ahead. Everyone, I suppose, has friends, neighbours, or family with whom they'd rather not be seen in public. Much of that feeling is subjective; your goofiest cousin, for instance, may be a hit at your cocktail party. But with the Bellarosas, it was not a matter of my perception or interpretation as to their social acceptability; it was just about everyone's judgement. Yes, we would get past the front door at The Creek or Seawanhaka, and we would be shown to a table and even waited on. Once.

So, if in fact the Sutters and the Bellarosas were going to get together for dinner or drinks in public, I would be well advised to pick a restaurant out of the area (but even that was fraught with danger, as I myself discovered about a year ago when I was having dinner on the South Shore with a client, female, young, beautiful, who liked to touch when making a point, and in walked the damned DePauws. But that's another story.)

Anyway, I suppose the four of us could go to Manhattan if we had to have dinner. The city is supposed to be anonymous, but it seems I'm always running into someone I know in Midtown.

Also, there seems to be some sort of odd connection between Mafia dons dining out and Mafia dons being murdered, splattering blood all over innocent people and that sort of thing. This may seem a bit paranoid, but it's happened often enough to be a real possibility, and for me to plan for; thus, if I were dining out with the don, I would seriously consider wearing an old suit. I believe Bellarosa when he tells me that the Mafia still maintains high, professional standards of murder, and in fact innocent people usually suffer no more than a stomach upset at these traditional dinner-hour murders. And of course, the dinner or what's left of it is always on the house for spectators as well as participants in the rub out. The murder, naturally, has to be committed in the restaurant to qualify for a freebie: not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York's best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.

So, to sup or not to sup? Considering what Frank himself said about the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo, trying to provoke a gang war, I would opt for Chinese takeout. But what if my crazy wife asks them out to dinner? All things considered, I don't know if it would be worse to dine with the Bellarosas at The Creek and face social ostracism, or to go to Manhattan for a jittery dinner at a nice little place that Frank insists on showing us, where the food is great, the owner is a paesano, and everyone sits at banquettes with their backs to the wall.

Well, of course there are other options, and I don't mean to suggest that two headstrong people such as Frank and Susan could get me to do something I don't want to do. If the situation arises, I will insist on having Frank and Anna to our house for a quick drink and coffee to go.

A few days before the Memorial Day weekend, Dominic and his crew put the finishing touches on the stable. All in all, it was a masterful job of demolition and reconstruction. It was actually a bit eerie to see a familiar landmark disappear, then reappear in the same shape and form, in a new location. Dominic and his husky elves could indeed move the Sistine Chapel down the block if they had the Pope's okay. And if they had the don's okay, they could move my house onto Alhambra's patio. I was almost afraid to go on vacation. And so that glorious day arrived when Zanzibar and Yankee came home. I suggested tricoloured bunting and garlands of flowers, but Susan ignored my suggestions and kept the ceremony simple and dignified, with only Dominic in attendance. I figured he was there to collect his money, but when I asked for the bill, he just jerked his thumb toward Alhambra. I gave him a bonus of five hundred dollars in cash for his men, and he seemed very happy for his men and looked as if he couldn't wait to distribute it.

Anyway, I sent a note over to Frank via Susan, but another week passed and still no bill. Now I owed the guy drinks and a chunk of cash, not to mention the fact that I was eating well.

Susan says that Italian food makes her passionate, and I, too, had noticed that our sex life, always good, had gotten better. Maybe Mrs B. had found the right combination of Italian herbs and spices. One evening, over one of these Alhambra take-out dinners, I said to Susan, "My God, your tits are growing. Get the recipe for this ravioli."

"Don't be a wiseass, John." She added, "You've put on a needed inch yourself, and I don't mean your waist."

Touche. But anyway, I think our increased sexual appetites were more psychological than culinary in origin, and perhaps a result of the perfect spring weather, which always makes my sap run hot, to use a tree metaphor. But who knows? When you're middle age, whatever works is right. Suffice it to say, Susan and I were getting it on in the bedroom and kitchen. We weren't doing as well in the other rooms, however, as Susan, always somewhat distant, seemed now distracted, as if she had something on her mind. So I asked her one day, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Things."

"Things? Like the recent outbreak of violence in Kurdistan?"

"Things around here. Just things."

"Well, the children will be home in June, and in July I'll be on half schedule, and in August we'll go to East Hampton."

She shrugged.

Remembering the immortal words of Frank Bellarosa on the subject of accommodating women, I said, "Why don't you go back to Brooklyn?" Anyway, I thought that with the stable moved and the horsies home at last, Susan's visits to Alhambra would taper off, but I had the impression she was still there quite a bit. I mean, I'm not around that much during the day, but whenever I called home, she was not there, and my messages on the answering machine went unanswered.

Also, George, the ever-faithful servant, would sometimes intercept me on my way to my house and say things like, "Mrs Sutter hasn't been in all day or I would have asked her…" followed by an inane question. George is not subtle, though he thinks he is. Obviously, he disapproved of any relationship with the Bellarosas. George is more royal than the king, holier than the bishop, and a bigger snob than any Astor or Vanderbilt I've ever met. A lot of the old servants are like that, trying to make their younger masters and mistresses act more like their fathers and mothers, who were, of course, paragons of virtue, gentlemen and ladies of refined manners, and so forth. Servants have very selective memories. The point is, George was not happy with us, and I knew that eventually, when he'd had a couple of stiff ones, he would say something to his cronies on the other estates, and the gossip would work its way up the social ladder. Well, if anything got back to me, I'd let George know how he'd kept his job and house all these years. No, I wouldn't. I liked George. And he liked Susan and me. But he was a gossip.

As for Ethel, I couldn't get a fix on her opinion of the Bellarosas or our relationship with them. She seemed noncommittal, almost non-judgemental for a change. I suspect that this was because she couldn't fit the Bellarosas into her theory of class struggle. Socialist doctrine, I think, is somewhat vague on the subject of criminals, and Ethel gets most of her opinions from nineteenth-century radicals who believed that the oppressive capitalist system created crime and criminals. So, perhaps Ethel was wrestling with the idea that Frank Bellarosa was a victim of free enterprise rather than one of its beneficiaries. If Ethel and I agree on anything, it is probably Mark Twain's observation that "there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress."

Anyway, there was one day when I was in the city and I had to reach Susan to ask her if she could come into Manhattan to join me for dinner with two out-of-town clients, Mr and Mrs Peterson, who had dropped in unexpectedly, and who are old friends of her parents. I called home and left two messages on Susan's machine, then as my rendezvous time with the Petersons approached, I called the gatehouse and spoke to Ethel. She informed me that Mrs Sutter had taken Zanzibar to Alhambra in the morning and had not returned, to the best of her knowledge. So, what would you do if your gatekeeper's wife informed you that your spouse had taken the stallion to the neighbouring estate? One should, of course, send a servant to fetch one's spouse, and this is what Ethel offered to do; that is, to send George next door. Or, she suggested, I might call Alhambra to see if Mrs Sutter was actually there. I said it wasn't important, though of course it must be if I were calling the gatehouse. I hung up with Ethel, called Susan's phone again, and left a final, rather curt message regarding my dinner date and the name of the restaurant.

The fact was, I still didn't have the Bellarosas' phone number, and Susan said she didn't either. I had noticed, when I was at Alhambra, and Susan confirmed, that none of the telephones there have the phone numbers written on the instruments. This was good security, of course, and I'd seen that in other great houses, as a precaution against the occasional servant, repairman, or the like jotting down the phone numbers of the rich and famous. Late that evening, upon returning home after my dinner with the Petersons (Susan had not shown up at the restaurant), I said to Susan, "I was trying to get in touch with you today."

"Yes, I got the messages on my machine and from Ethel." I never ask "Where were you?" because if I did, then she would start asking, "Where were you? – which leads to "Who were you with and what were you doing?" What could be more lower-middle-class than asking your spouse to account for his or her day or evening? That's probably how Sally Ann got her first black eye. But I did say, "I would like to be able to reach you if you are at Alhambra. Would you prefer that I send George over, or should you ask the Bellarosas for their telephone number?"

She shrugged. "I don't have any reason to call them. I suppose you could just send George."

I think Susan was missing my point. I responded, "George is not always available. Perhaps you can get the Bellarosas' phone number, Susan. I'm quite sure you will have some reason to call them someday." "I don't think so. I just come and go as I please. If I have to leave a message, I leave it with Anthony, Vinnie, or Lee."

"Who, may I ask, are Anthony, Vinnie, and Lee?"

"You've met Anthony – the gatekeeper. Vinnie is the other gatekeeper. They both live in the gatehouse. Lee is Anthony's friend. She lives in the gatehouse also. It has three bedrooms."

"Lee is a woman. I see. And what does poor Vinnie do for a friend?" "Vinnie has another friend, Delia, who comes by." The idea of Grace Lane's location being known by people whose origins were in Brooklyn was somewhat disturbing. I was at the point where I could almost tolerate Mafia dons and their peers in black limousines, but hit men, gun molls, and other riffraff were another matter. I said, "I don't like the idea of a bordello down the street." "Oh, John. Really. What do you expect Anthony and Vinnie to do? Guard duty gets lonely. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off, seven days a week. They split it up. Lee keeps house."

"That's interesting." What was even more interesting, I thought, was that Lady Stanhope seemed to find these Damon Runyon characters simpatico. But I, narrow-minded, upper-middle-class John Sutter, was not so tolerant. I suggested, "Perhaps we should introduce Anthony, Vinnie, Lee and Delia to the Allards, and they can exchange professional tips on gatekeeping."

Getting no response, I went back to my main point and said, "But surely, Susan, on a dark and stormy night, it might be easier to call Alhambra than to go to the gatehouse and interrupt something."

"Look, John, if you want the phone number, you ask for it. How were the Petersons?"

"They were very sorry they missed you." The question of the telephone number was now in my court, where it would stay. Do you see what I mean about Susan's unreasonableness? Stubbornness might be a better word. It's the red hair. Really it is.

Anyway, regarding the Bellarosas' phone number, I didn't really want it, except for those rare occasions when I needed to reach Susan, who seemed to have become part of the royal court at Alhambra. But the fact that Bellarosa hadn't called, written, sent word, or divulged his phone number to me confirmed in my mind that we had no lawyer/client relationship, either implied or inferred. And the next time he called me, I resolved that I would tell him that in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, Fate, which had always been kind to me in the past, was pissed off at me for some reason and intervened again to push me into Bellarosa's deadly embrace.

I was busy at work, especially in my Manhattan office. My practice has as much to do with money as it does with law. Or to be more precise, my clients want to know how to legally keep their money out of the hands of the government. This spirited contest between the taxpayer and the Internal Revenue Service has been going on since the very moment Congress passed the income tax amendment in 1913. In recent years, because of people like me, the taxpayer has actually won a few rounds.

The result of this prolonged conflict has been the creation of a large and thriving tax industry, of which I and my firm are important players. My clients are mostly people or heirs to people who were hit hard in 1929, and those who recovered faced income tax rates that reached ninety percent by the 1950s. Many of these people, sophisticated in other ways, were unprepared for the onslaught of income redistribution from Washington. Some, in an idiotic display of guilt and altruism, even saw it as just and fair, like Susan's grandfather, who was prepared to give half his money to the American people. But when it got to be more than half, some of these socially progressive millionaires began to feel the pinch. It also became obvious that the few dollars of tax money that did get down to the people were getting to the wrong people for the wrong reasons. And so, in a less sophisticated age, even those of my firm's clients who knew how to make money in the worst of times didn't know how to keep it from the government in the best of times. But they've seen the light, and they don't intend for this to happen again, for this is the age of greed, and of looking out for Number One. And through a process of social Darwinism, we have all evolved into specialized species who can smell the danger of a new tax law hatched on Capitol Hill all the way to Wall Street.

These people, my clients, hire me to be certain that they are not going to go to jail if they or their financial planners come up with a clever way to beat a tax. It's all legal, of course, and I wouldn't be involved with it if it weren't. The motto around here is this: To evade taxes is illegal; to avoid taxes is legal. And, I might add, a civil right and moral obligation. So, for instance, when the new tax law swept away the old Clifford Trust for children, some bright guy like me (I wish it had been me) came up with something called a pseudo-Clifford trust, which accomplished the same objective of transferring tax-free money to the little heirs and is so clever and complicated that the Internal Revenue Service is still trying to figure out a way to plug up the loophole. It's a game – maybe even a war. I play it well, and I also play it clean and straight. I can afford to; I'm smarter than the other side, and if anyone in the IRS were as bright as I am, they'd be working for me. Anyway, though I play it straight, I sometimes wind up in tax court with a client to settle a difference of opinion. But no client of mine has ever faced criminal charges for tax fraud unless he's lied to me about something or held back something. I try to keep my clients as honest as I am. When you cheat at poker, life, or taxes, you've taken the honour and fun out of winning, and ultimately you've cheated yourself out of the finest pleasure in life: beating the other guy fair and square. That's what I was taught in school. Granted, the other side doesn't always play fair, but in this country you always have the option of yelling "foul", and going to court. Maybe if I lived in another country with no honest and independent judiciary, I wouldn't fight fair. I am, after all, talking about survival, not suicide. But here, in America, the system still works, and I believe in it. At least I did up until eleven A.M. that morning. By noon, I had entered another stage of my life as an endangered species, trying to quickly evolve a few more specialized survival skills and stay out of jail myself. But more about that in a moment. So there I was, sitting in my Wall Street office on that pleasant May morning, buried in work. My summer schedule generally consists of four-day weekends at my summer house in East Hampton during July, then I spend the whole month of August there. I knock off early, and Susan and I sail out of the yacht club and stay out until dark, or when the mood strikes us, we stay on the water until dawn, which is beautiful.

Susan and I have six or seven really good sex scenarios for the boat. Sometimes I'm a shipwrecked sailor and Susan pulls me aboard, nearly naked, of course, and nurses me back to health. In the rough-trade department, I'm a pirate who slips aboard at night and finds her in the shower, or undressing for bed. Then there's the stowaway drama in two acts, where I discover her hiding in the hold and administer appropriate corporal punishment as maritime law allows. I personally like the one where I'm a lowly deckhand and Susan is the yacht owner. She orders me around, sunbathes in the nude, and makes me perform demeaning acts, which I won't go into here. The point is, I look forward to sex on the high seas, and so I run, run, run through the treadmill of spring, my arms outstretched toward the Glorious Fourth.

I know this sounds as if I take it pretty easy from the Fourth of July to Labor Day, but I earned it. Also, I use the time to do my own taxes, which I put on extended deadline every year.

I mention this because as I was sitting in my office thinking about my summer house and my taxes, my secretary, Louise, buzzed me. I picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"There is a Mr Novac on the line from the Internal Revenue."

"Tell him to call me in September."

"He says it is most important that he speak to you."

I replied with annoyance, "Well, find out what case or client it refers to, pull the file, and tell him to hold." I was about to hang up with Louise when she said, "I asked him that, Mr Sutter. He won't say. He says he must speak to you personally."

"Oh…" I thought I knew what this was about. But why would the IRS call me about Frank Bellarosa? Then I thought it might be Mr Mancuso of the FBI calling undercover. But that didn't seem right. Frank Bellarosa had introduced a new dimension into my life, so naturally a call such as this took on a Bellarosa colouring, and it was not a pretty rose tint. I said to Louise, "Put him through."

"Yes, sir." I heard a click, then a mealy-mouthed male voice, which I immediately took a disliking to, said, "Mr John Sutter?" "Yes."

"My name is Stephen Novac, a revenue agent with the IRS."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to stop up and discuss some matters with you."

"What matters?"

"Serious matters, Mr Sutter."

"Concerning what and whom?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone."

"Why not?" I asked lightly. "Are your phones tapped by the Taxpayers' Revolt Committee?" I waited for a polite chuckle, but there was none. Not good. I also waited for the word "Sir", but didn't hear that either. I pulled my calendar toward me. "All right, how about next Wednesday at -" "I'll be there in half an hour, Mr Sutter. Please be there and allow an hour for my visit. Thank you."

The phone went dead. "What nerve -" I buzzed Louise. "Clear my calendar until noon. When Mr Novac shows up, keep him waiting fifteen minutes." "Yes, sir."

I stood, walked to the window, and looked down on Wall Street. Money. Power. Prestige. Corporate grandeur and layers of insulation against the world. But, Mr Stephen Novac, of the IRS, had done in fifteen seconds what some people couldn't do in fifteen days or weeks; he had breached all the fortifications and would be sitting in my office on the very same morning he'd called. Incredible. Of course I knew by the tone of the man's voice and by his arrogance that this must be a criminal matter. (If it turned out to be a civil case, I'd throw him out the window.) So the question remained, which criminal was Mr Novac coming to see me about? Bellarosa? One of my clients? But Novac would not be that arrogant if he were looking for my cooperation. Therefore, he was not looking for my cooperation. Therefore… At eleven-fifteen, Mr Stephen Novac was shown into my office. He was one of those people whose telephone voice exactly matched his looks. After the mandatory limp handshake, Mr Novac showed me his credentials which identified him as a special agent, not a revenue agent as he'd said. A special agent, in case you haven't had the opportunity to meet one of these people, is actually with the IRS Criminal Investigation Division. I said to him, "You misrepresented yourself over the telephone."

"How so?"

I told him how so and added, "You're speaking to an attorney, Mr Novac, and you've gotten yourself off on the wrong foot." Of course, the man was royally pissed off and would now take every opportunity to stick it to me. But I had the feeling he was going to do that anyway. "Sit," I commanded. He sat. I remained standing and looked down at him. That's my little power play. Mr Novac was about forty, and anyone still in the IRS after all those years was definitely a career officer, a pro. Sometimes they send kids over, spanking new CPAs or attorneys with the ink still wet on their diplomas, and I chew them up and spit them out before they even open their briefcases. But Stephen Novac looked cool, slightly smug, the way any cop is when he knows he has the full weight of the law in his badge case. He seemed not at all impressed with his surroundings, not intimidated by all the accoutrements of rooted, generational jurisprudence. This was not going to be pleasant. "What can I do for you, Mr Novac?"

He crossed his legs and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He perused it without replying.

I had the urge to throw him out the window, but they'd just send another one. I regarded Novac a moment. He had on an awful grey poplin cotton suit, the sort of thing that prisons issue when they set you free. He wore shoes that actually had gum soles, and the uppers were made of a miracle synthetic that could be safely cleaned with Brillo. His shirt, his tie, socks, watch, even his haircut, were all bargain basement, and I found myself irrationally offended by the man because of the air of sensible frugality about him. Actually, I hate a man who won't splurge on a good suit.

What I really didn't like about Novac, of course, was that he was in my office to ruin my life. At least he could have come better dressed. "Mr Novac," I said, "can I help you find something in that book?" He looked up at me. "Mr Sutter, you bought a house in East Hampton in 1971 for $55,000. Correct?"

Innocuous as that question may seem to you, it was not the question I wanted to hear. I replied, "I bought a house in East Hampton in the early 1970s for about that price."

"All right. You sold it in 1979 for $365,000. Correct?"

"That sounds about right." Best investment I ever made.

"There was, then, a net long-term capital gain on the transaction of $310,000.

Correct?"

"No. There was a gross gain of $310,000. There's a difference between net and gross, Mr Novac. I'm sure they taught you that i school, even if the IRS doesn't know the difference." Easy, Sutter.

He looked at me. "What, then, was your net capital gain?" "You subtract capital improvements and other costs from the gross, and that's what we call the net in the world of private enterprise." "And how much was that, Mr Sutter?"

"I have no idea at this moment."

"Neither do we, Mr Sutter, since you never reported a dollar of it." Touche, Mr Novac. I replied aggressively, "Why should I report it as income? I bought another house in East Hampton for over $400,000. Therefore, the capital gain, whatever it is, was deferred. Would you like me to show you the pertinent section of the tax code?"

"Mr Sutter, you had eighteen months according lo the law at that time to roll over the gain – to purchase a house with the proceeds of the house you sold in order to defer the capital gain. You waited twenty-three months before you bought the house on Berry Lane in East Hampton, in January of 1981. Therefore, a tax event took place, and you should have computed and paid taxes on your capital gain." He added, "You failed to report a significant amount of income." The man was right, of course, which was why he was still sitting there and not being tossed bodily out into the hall. But lest you think I am a crook, there is an explanation. I said to Mr Novac, "My intention was to build a house. The law, you may have heard, allows twenty-four months to roll over the capital gain if you build instead of buy."

Mr Novac replied, "But the house you bought and still own on Berry Lane was not built by you. It was an existing house, according to my research." "Yes. I had a binder on a piece of land on which I was going to build my house, but the seller reneged at the last moment. I began an action against him, but we settled. There are court records to substantiate that. So, as you can see, Mr Novac, my intention to build a new house was aborted. The clock was ticking, and I knew I could not find land and begin construction to satisfy the government's inane tax rules, which I think are an intrusion into my rights as a free citizen to make economic decisions based on my needs and not the government's. Therefore, Mr Novac, being thwarted in my intention to build, I quickly bought an existing house – the one on Berry Lane, which is quite nice, and if you're ever in East Hampton, drive by." I added, "To avoid taxes is legal, to evade taxes is illegal. I avoided. Thank you for stopping by on government time. I like to see how my tax money is spent." I walked to the door and opened it, adding, "I'll send you the pertinent records and court papers regarding the land deal that fell through, so you don't have to dig them up out in East Hampton. Please leave your card with my secretary."

But Mr Novac was not on his way out the open door. He remained seated and said, "Mr Sutter, you did not fulfil the requirements to buy a house within eighteen months. Therefore, a tax event took place at that point in time. There is nothing you can do or say retroactively to change that tax event." He added, "You have broken the law."

Now, you have to understand how these people think. Mr Novac was certain that I had committed not only a crime under the ever-changing tax code, but that I had sealed my fate for eternity when a tax event took place without my notifying the government of it. Truly the angels in heaven were weeping for me all these years. Confess, said Mr Novac, repent and you will be absolved of this sin before we burn you at the stake. No, thanks. I closed the door so as not to upset Louise and moved toward Mr Novac, who stood his ground, or more precisely remained on his ass. "Mr Novac," I began at low volume, "in this great nation of ours, a citizen is innocent until proven guilty." Turning up the volume now:

'This is the central principle of our system of justice, a pillar of our civil liberties. Yet the Internal Revenue Service demands of American citizens that they supply proof of their innocence. Wrong, Mr Novac. Wrong." Full volume. "If you have proof of my guilt, I demand to see it. Now!" He kept his cool, refusing to be baited or drawn into a shouting match, which was what I wanted for the record. He was a pro. "Mr Sutter," he said, "like it or nol, in matters of civil tax delinquency, the burden of proof is on you." "All right," I said coolly, "then listen carefully. It was my intention, which I can demonstrate in tax court, to build a house. Interestingly, the new tax law allows twenty-four months lo build or buy a house in order to avoid a capital gains tax. So you see, Mr Novac, nothing is carved in stone, least of all the tax code, which is rewritten by little elves every night. So there you have my position in this case, Mr Novac. I have nothing further to say, but if you want to fill the remainder of the hour I have allotted lo you, you can sit there and read the United States Tax Code while I work."

Mr Novac got the message and stood. "Mr Sutter, by your own admission, and based on my research, you are liable for capital gains taxes, plus interest and penalties." Mr Novac look a piece of paper from his pocket, scanned it, and said, "By my calculations, if you cannot show receipts and cancelled cheques for capital improvement deductions, then the capital gain in the year you sold your house was $310,000. Taking into account the tax structure at that time, plus the interest and penalties – negligence penalties, failure-to-file penalties, and a civil fraud penalty – you owe the United States $314,513." Now I wished I was sitting. I took a deep but discreet breath. This was the moment Mr Novac had been waiting for – perhaps for months – and I was not going to give him anything to savour about it. I said, "And I still come up with zero."

He handed the paper to me, but I refused to take it, so he left it on my desk.

Mr Novac said, "Your intention to legally avoid the tax is irrelevant." "Wrong," I replied. "In a civil tax case, my intent is very relevant. Where did you go to school?" Mr Novac only smiled, which made me uneasy. I continued, "And don't expect me to agree to a negotiated settlement. My position is that I owe no taxes." I added, "And if you try to seize any of my assets, I will block you and sue you." This threat, unfortunately, was so hollow that Mr Novac openly smirked. The IRS has nearly total power to take things from you, and you have to go to court to get them back. I added, "I'm calling my congressman as well." Mr Novac seemed not impressed. He informed me, "Normally, Mr Sutter, I would accept your explanation for the error if you would accept my figures. But as you are an educated man, a tax attorney at that, then the IRS is taking the position that this was not an error or oversight, but a case of premeditated tax evasion. Fraud. I must advise you at this time that, in addition to the civil penalties, criminal charges are being contemplated."

I could smell that coming, and when a cop says "criminal charges," I don't care who you are, how much money you have, or how many law degrees are hanging on your wall, your heart does a thump. I actually know a few men with more power and money than I have who were sent away for a while, as they say. I know two who have come back and they are not the same men. I looked Mr Novac in the eye. "Grown men do not wear cotton suits."

For the first time, Mr Novac showed some emotion; he turned red, but not, I'm afraid, with embarrassment over his poor attire. No, he was really pissed off now. He got his colour under control and said, "Please prepare for a full audit of all your tax returns from 1979 to the present, including this year's return, which you have not yet filed. Have all your documentation and records available for an auditor, who will contact you this afternoon. If you do not voluntarily turn over these records, we will subpoena them."

My tax records were in Locust Valley, but I'd worry about that this afternoon.

Now I know what it feels like to be mugged. I walked to my door and opened it. "And no one in the Free World wears synthetic leather shoes, Mr Novac. You must be a spy."

"I am a vegetarian," he explained, "and will not wear leather." "Then for God's sake, man, have the decency to wear canvas tennis shoes or rubber galoshes, but not plastic. Good day."

He left without another word, and as I was closing the door behind him, a word popped into my mind and I called out, "Schmuck!" Louise almost dropped her dentures. I slammed the door shut.

Despite my cool, patrician exterior, I was somewhat disturbed over the prospect of coughing up about a third of a million dollars plus spending time in a federal prison. I poured a glass of ice water from a carafe, went to the window, and opened it, letting in some of the last breathable air that still exists at this altitude in Manhattan.

So, there it was; the Great Upper-Middle-Class Nightmare – a tax slip-up in six figures.

Now listen to me feel sorry for myself. I work my butt off, I raised two children, I contribute to society and to the nation, I pay my taxes… well, apparently not all of them, but most of them… and I served my country in time of war when others found ways to avoid their national duty. This is not fair. Now listen to me build up rage. The nation is overrun with drug dealers and Mafia dons who live like kings. Criminals own the streets, murderers walk free, billions are spent on welfare, but there's no money to build jails, congressmen and senators do things that would put me behind bars, and big corporations get away with tax scams of such magnitude that the government would rather compromise than fight. And they call me a criminal? What the hell is wrong here? I got myself under control and looked down into the street: Wall Street, the financial hub of the nation from which radiated the spokes of power and money that held up the rim of the world. And yet there was this perception out in the hinterlands that Wall Street was un-American, and the movers and shakers who inhabited it were parasites. Thus, Mr Novac entered Wall Street with a generally bad attitude, and I suppose I didn't do much to change his mind. Maybe I shouldn't have remarked on his plastic shoes. But how could I have possibly resisted? I mean, I learned something at Yale. I smiled. I was feeling a little better.

Now listen to me think rationally. The criminal charge would be difficult to prove, but not impossible. A jury of my peers, drawn from my friends at The Creek, would surely find me not guilty. But a federal jury, constituted in New York City, might not be so sympathetic. But even if I could avoid or beat the criminal charges and fines, I was probably on the hook for… I looked at the paper on my desk… $314,513, which was actually more than the entire so-called profit on the sale of the house. That is a lot of money, even for a successful Wall Street lawyer. Especially an honest one.

Also, Susan theoretically was on the hook for half of that. Though we file separate tax returns because of her complicated trust fund income, and because that is what our marriage contract stipulates we do, half the East Hampton house is hers, and she should have picked up half the supposed capital gain. But of course, even in this age of women's equality, Novac was talking jail to me, not Susan. Typical.

Anyway, thinking rationally, I knew I should call the Stanhopes' law firm and advise them of this problem. They'd probably go to the IRS and offer to help screw me in exchange for immunity for their little heiress client. You think marrying into a superrich family is all fun and profit? Try it. Anyway, the next thing I had to do was have one of the partners here handle my tax case – you can't be objective when it's your own money – and then I should think about actually retaining a criminal attorney for myself.

This last thought led me into a word association, like this: Criminal -

Bellarosa.

I thought about my buddy, Frank, for a moment. Mr Bellarosa went to jail once in his larcenous life, and that was for tax evasion. But obviously Bellarosa is still committing tax fraud, since he's certainly not declaring his income from drugs, prostitution, gambling, hijacking, or whatever else he does on the side. So I stood there looking down on Wall Street, feeling sorry for myself, feeling angry at the injustices of life, and really pissed off at the thought of all the criminals who were not hassled today by the government. It was just then, I suppose, that a strange thing began to happen to me: I started to lose faith in the system. Me, a champion of the system, a cheerleader for law and order, a patriot and a Republican for God's sake – suddenly I felt alienated from my country. I suppose this is a common reaction for an honest man and a good citizen who is thrown into the same category as Al Capone and Frank Bellarosa. I suppose, too, to be honest, that this had been brewing for some time.

I recalled Frank Bellarosa's words: You a Boy Scout or something? You salute the flag every morning?

Well, I did. But then I realized that all my years of good citizenship would only count toward a favourable pre-sentencing report to the judge. My logic – no, my survival instincts – told me I needed to stop being a good citizen if I wanted to be a free citizen. So, voluntary compliance or come and get me, pigs? Come and get me, pigs.

I knew, of course, the one man who could really help me, and I wished I had his telephone number right then.

CHAPTER 19

"Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's," quoted Frank Bellarosa. "But," he added, "never more than fifteen percent of your net."

I give my clients similar advice, but I recommend seventeen percent of the adjusted gross, and I charge for my time. So, I suppose, does Frank Bellarosa, in a manner of speaking.

It was Friday evening, and I was at my usual table in the cocktail lounge of The Creek. It was crowded, and everything was as I described it on an earlier Friday evening, except that sitting across from me was the Bishop. Without even looking around, I could feel eyeballs bouncing between me and my friend Frank. Lester Remsen was at the next table, and with him were Randall Potter and Allen DePauw, who you may recall was providing the government with a forward observation post across the road from Alhambra. The Reverend Mr Hunnings was also there, sitting with three other men at the corner table near the big picture window, a sports jacket thrown over his golfing clothes and a glass of red wine in his hand. Episcopalian and Catholic clergy, I've noticed, drink mostly red wine in public, which I suppose is okay for the image, because red wine is served at the altar, unlike cold beer. At another nearby table, which apparently was reserved for people with Dutch blood, were Jim Roosevelt, Martin Vandemeer, and Cyril Vanderbilt, the latter I guess having come over from Piping Rock for a night of slumming. The place was getting more crowded, and in the words of an old rock-Zen lyric, everybody there was there. Plus some. I had the bizarre thought that the word had gotten out that Sutter had brought Bellarosa up to the club, and everyone had turned out to watch. No, no. It was just a typical Friday night. Frank snapped his fingers at old Charlie, a former dining-room waiter, who after having served his one-millionth meal was put out to pasture in the cocktail lounge where he could drink, smoke, talk, and take it easy like the club members. Charlie, of course, ignored the snapped fingers, and Frank snapped again and called out, "Hey!"

I winced and said, "I'll get us drinks." I stood and walked to the bar. Gustav, the bartender, had my martini going before I reached the rail. I said to him, "And a rye and ginger ale." Gustav's smirk told me what he thought of that drink.

Lester came up beside me, and I supposed he had been delegated with a few pokes in the ribs to approach me. "Hello, John," said Lester. "Hello, Lester," said John.

"Who's that fellow you're with?"

"That's Antonio Pugliesi, the world-renowned opera singer."

"It looks like Frank Bellarosa, John."

"Remarkable resemblance."

"John… this is not good."

The rye and ginger came, and I signed for the drinks.

Lester went on, "What's this all about, John?"

"He's my neighbour." I added, "He wanted to come up here." Which was the truth. It certainly wasn't my idea. But I found that I was annoyed with Lester for questioning me on the subject.

Lester inquired, "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Yes, we are. Susan and Mrs Bellarosa will be here shortly." "Look… John, as a member of the club board, and as your friend -" "And my cousin."

"Yes… that, too… I think I should tell you that some people here tonight are unhappy, uncomfortable."

"Everyone looks happy and comfortable."

"You know what I mean. I understand the position you're in, and I suppose drinks are all right, every once in a great while." He added sotto voce, "Like we do with some minorities. And even lunch now and then is all right. But not dinner, John, and not with the women."

"Lester," I replied curtly, "you tried to involve me in fraud, forgery, and embezzlement just a few months ago. So why don't you get off your high horse and go fuck yourself." I took the drinks and returned to my table. As I sipped my martini, I found that my hand was a bit unsteady.

Frank stirred his highball. "You forgot the cherry."

"I'm not a fucking waiter."

Frank Bellarosa, as you might imagine, is not used to being spoken to like that.

But that being the case, he didn't know what to say and just stirred his drink. I was not in the best of moods, as you may have guessed. I think that having a fight with an IRS man is the mood-altering equivalent of having a fight with your wife. I inquired of Mr Bellarosa, "So, what would you do? Pay the guy off? Threaten to blow his brains out?"

Bellarosa's eyes widened as though he were shocked by what I'd said, and I found that almost comical. Bellarosa replied, "You never, never hit a federal agent." "If you met Mr Novac, you'd make an exception."

He smiled but said nothing.

I asked, "So, should I bribe him?"

"No. You're an honest man. Don't do nothing you don't usually do. It don't work." He added, "Anyway, the guy's probably wired and thinks you are, too." I nodded. In truth, I'd find it less repugnant to shoot Mr Novac than offer him a bribe.

I regarded Frank Bellarosa, dressed in his standard uniform of blazer and turtleneck. He must have seen that outfit in a clothing ad with a mansion in the background and decided to stick with it, changing only the colours. The blazer was green this time, and the turtleneck canary yellow. In itself, the outfit would not draw much attention because after the tweed season around here most of the Wasps break out their silly summer colours and look like tropical birds until Labor Day. At least Bellarosa hadn't walked in wearing a grey iridescent sharkskin suit. I said to him, "Ditch the Rolex, Frank." "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Some people can get away with it, you can't. Get a sports watch, and get some penny loafers or Docksides. You know what they are?" "Sure."

I didn't think he did. I finished my martini, got Charlie's attention without snapping my fingers, and ordered another round. "And a maraschino cherry for this gentleman."

"Would the gentleman like a green or red cherry, sir?" Charlie asked me, as if I'd brought my bulldog in and ordered him a saucer of milk. "Red!" Bellarosa barked. Charlie shuffled off.

A number of women had shown up to sit with or collect their husbands, and I noticed Beryl Carlisle now, at a table with her spouse, what's-his-name. She was in profile, and I watched her awhile, sucking on a drink stirrer. She did it well. She looked toward me, as if she knew right where I was, and we exchanged tentative smiles, sort of like, "Are we at it again?"

Bellarosa looked at Beryl, then at me. "That's a nice piece of goods there. I think she's got wet pants for you."

I was happy to get a second opinion of this, but I informed him, "We don't talk sex here."

He smiled. "No? Whaddaya talk here? Money?"

"We talk business but never money."

"How the hell do you do that?"

"It's not easy. Listen, I want the name of your tax lawyer, Frank. Not the one you used when you went up for two years, the one you use now who's keeping you out of jail."

The drinks came and Bellarosa dangled the horrible dyed cherry by its stem and bit it off.

"Your tax lawyer," I prompted.

He chewed on the cherry. "You don't need no lawyer. Lawyers are for when you gotta go to court. You got to head this off."

"Okay. How?"

"You got to understand why before you know how."

"I understand why. I don't want to fork over three hundred thousand dollars and go to jail for a few years. That's why."

"But you got to understand why. Why you don't want to do that."

"Because it was an honest mistake."

"No such thing, pal."

I shrugged and went back to my martini. I glanced around the room, sort of taking attendance. I caught a few people looking away, but a few, such as Martin Vandermeer and the good Father Hunnings, held eye contact in an unpleasant way. Beryl, on the other hand, gave me a wider smile as if we were on the right track again. I had the feeling that if Beryl Carlisle was, as Bellarosa grossly suggested, secreting, then it had something to do with my proximity to Mr Bellarosa. Beryl is one of those women who was once wild, married safe, has safe affairs, but still loves the bad boys. I guess I was now the best of both worlds for her; kind of a preppie thug.

I looked back at Bellarosa. I guess we were at an impasse until I figured out the why thing. I tried to recall some of his philosophy of life as imparted to me at Alhambra. I said, "Novac has it in for me personally, that's why. I screwed his wife once and left her in a motel up in the Catskills during a snowstorm."

Bellarosa smiled. "Now you're getting closer." He scooped up some of those awful pretzel goldfish from a bowl on the table and popped them in his mouth. I had intended to write to the club manager about pretzel goldfish, but after tonight, I'd be well advised not to complain about anything.

Bellarosa swallowed the goldfish and said to me, "Okay, let me tell you how I see it. In this country, this very nice democracy we got here, people don't understand that there's a class war going on all the time. You don't believe that about your country? Believe it, pal. All history is a struggle between three classes – high, middle, and low. I learned that from a history teacher at La Salle. You understand what the guy was saying?"

I guess so, Frank. I went to Yale, for God's sake. I asked him, "Where does the criminal class fit in?"

"Same shit. You don't think there's different classes of criminals? You think I'm the same as some melanzane crack pusher?"

Actually, I sort of did, but now that he put it in historical and economic terms, I guess I didn't. Maybe I had more in common with Frank Bellarosa that I did with the Reverend Mr Hunnings, for instance, who didn't like me or my money. I said, "My gatekeeper's wife, Ethel, believes in class struggle. I'll get you together with her someday. Should be fun."

"Yeah. I don't think you buy this. Okay, it's not like in Europe with all the crazy political parties and all the crazy talk, but we got it anyway. Class struggle."

"So that's why Novac is out to get me? He's a commie?"

"Sort of. But he don't even know he is."

"I should have known when he told me he was a vegetarian." "Yeah. Also, you got another war going on which is just as old as the class war – you got a war between the jackasses in the government and the smart people outside the government. The jackasses in the government want the poor and stupid people to think they care about them. Capisce? So you know where that leaves guys like you and me? Protecting our balls with one hand and our wallets with the other. Right?"

The man was right, of course. But when I tell my clients the same thing, I say it differently. Maybe that's why they don't always get it. Bellarosa went on. "And it's not true that the IRS don't care about you, that you're just a number to them. That would be fucking terrific if it was true, but it ain't. They care about you in a way that you don't want them to care." I replied, "But some of what they do, Frank, is not malicious or philosophically motivated. It's just random, stupid bureaucracy. I know. I deal with them every day. I don't think the IRS or Novac is out to get me personally." "It don't start that way. It starts when they go after your kind of people. And that ain't random or stupid, pal. That's planned. And if it's planned, it's war. Then, when a guy like Novac gets on your case, it always turns personal." He asked, "Did you piss him off?"

I smiled. "A little."

"Yeah. Mistake number one."

"I know that."

"Look, Counsellor, Novac is a five-number guy, good for maybe thirty, forty a year. You do maybe ten times that. It's like with me and Ferragamo. Same thing. Thing is, they got the badges, so you don't insult them to their face."

"The man annoyed me."

"Yeah. They do that. Look, Novac didn't go into the IRS to protect your money. He went in there with an attitude, and if you knew what that attitude was, you'd shit."

"I know that."

Bellarosa leaned across the table toward me. "Novac has power, see? Power to make a guy like you, and yeah, even me, squirm. And he gets his rocks off doing that, because he's got no power no place else – not at the bank, not in his office, maybe not even at home with his wife and kids. What kind of power you got at home when you bring in thirty thousand a year?" Bellarosa looked me in the eye. "Put yourself in Novac's shoes for a day."

"God, no. He wears synthetic leather."

"Yeah? See? So go live in his shit house or his shit apartment, worry about the price of clothes for once in your life, the price of groceries, and lay awake at night and think about college tuition for your kids, and if you're gonna get a bad report from your boss, or if the government is going to spring for a raise this year. Then go and pay a call on Mr John Sutter in his fancy fucking office and tell how you're going to act with him."

My Lord, I almost felt sorry for Stephen Novac. "I understand all that, but I want to know -" "Yeah, you got to understand first who you're dealing with, and understand this – they like to pick on very visible people. People like me and yeah, people like you. Guys whose tax problems are gonna make the news. You know why?" "Yes, Frank. I do taxes for a living. The IRS likes to make the news so they can scare the hell out of a few million other taxpayers who they can't call on in person. That makes people pay their taxes."

They don't give a shit about collecting taxes for the government. You still don't get it. They care about scaring the hell out of people. That's power. And that's jealousy, too. A guy like Novac don't have the balls to get rich like you and me, but he's got the brains to be pissed at not being rich. That's a dangerous man."

I nodded. Bellarosa really did sound like Machiavelli in modern translation. "Take a guy like Ferragamo," Bellarosa continued. "He pretends like it's all justice, democracy, equality, and caring about the poor and the victims of crime and all that shit. Wrong. That ain't what it's about, pal. It's about fucking power. It's jealousy, it's personal, and it's all covered up with nice sounding bullshit. Hey, I could take you to streets in Brooklyn where there's more crime in one block than there is in this whole fucking county. Do you see Ferragamo down there? Do you see Mancuso down there? You see Novac there asking those pimps and drug dealers if they filled out their tax return? And I'll tell you this, Counsellor, it don't matter if you led your whole life like I did, or like you did. When they decide to stick it up your ass with a felony, we're both looking at the same five or ten years, and maybe more. You get time off for good behaviour after you're inside, not before. Capisce? And I'll tell you something else you don't want to hear. When you look at a jury, they look back and size you up, and you try to look innocent and friendly. When I look at a jury, half of them think I fixed the other half, and all of them think they're gonna get blown away if they vote guilty. That is power, pal. I got it; you don't. Nobody fucks with me. And here's another news flash for you: If you think the government ain't after your ass because of what you do, because you're a fancy tax guy beating them at their own game then you still don't get it. Think about it."

I'd already thought about that one and patriotically dismissed it. I said, "You've got this all figured out."

"I got most of it figured out. I'm still working on some of it." He leaned back in his chair and finished the goldfish. "So now you know why. Now you got to talk to Mr Melzer. He'll tell you how."

I let a few seconds pass, then realized I had to ask, "Who is Mr Melzer?" "He was on the other side once. A big shot with the IRS. Now he's in private consulting. You know? And now he's rich from selling the enemy's secrets. He knows the jackasses personally. Understand? I met him too late for me. But maybe he can do the right thing for you."

I thought a moment. There were, indeed, a few renegades out there selling guns to the Indians. But I would never recommend one of them to my clients. From what I knew, they operated in a sort of grey area, trading on personal relationships in the IRS, maybe even paying bribes and blackmailing former co-workers, for all I knew. Their clients never knew, which was part of the deal. No, John Sutter, Mr Straight, would not recommend a renegade IRS man to his clients, even if it was legal. It wasn't ethical.

I must have looked undecided, sceptical, or perhaps disappointed, because Bellarosa said, "Mr Melzer will guarantee you, right up front, that you won't be indicted. No criminal charges, no jail."

"How can he guarantee that?"

"That's his business, my friend. You want to fight this your way, you go ahead. You want to fight it with Melzer, with an up-front guarantee that you'll never see the inside of a Federal pen, then let me know. But you got to act quick before the jackasses get too far along for Melzer to settle things his way." I looked at Bellarosa. He, in effect, was personally guaranteeing me that I wasn't going to jail. I might still be out a third of a million dollars, but I wasn't going to be writing cheques to the IRS in the warden's office. What did I feel? Relief? Gratitude? A closeness to my new pal? You bet I did. "Okay. Melzer."

"Good. He'll get ahold of you." Bellarosa looked around the room again. "Nice place."

"Yes."

"They take Catholics, right? Italians?"

"Yes, they do."

"My sons can come here if I'm a member?"

"Yes."

"How's the food?"

"Not as good as Anna's."

He laughed, then looked at me for a few long seconds. "So you help me join up.

Okay?"

"Well… you need three seconding sponsors. Understand?"

"Yeah. I belong to clubs. You find them. I don't know anybody here." I saw this coming. "I'll tell you, Frank, even if I could do that, you won't get past the membership committee."

"Yeah? Why?"

Why seemed to be the question of the evening. "You know why."

"Tell me."

"Okay, because this is one of the most exclusive and prestigious clubs in America, and they don't want a… how do you describe yourself? I mean for real, Frank?"

He didn't reply, so I helped him. "A Mafia don? Head of an organized crime family? What are you going to put on the application? What did you put on your tax return last year? Gangster?"

Again he made no reply, so I said, "Anyway, this is one institution you can't coerce with threats, money, or political connections. I've got more chance of becoming a Mafia don than you've got of becoming a member of this club." Bellarosa thought about that a moment, and I could see he wasn't pleased with this information, so I gave him more good news. "You're not even welcome here as a guest. And if I take you here again, I'll be playing golf on the public course, and I'll have to do my skeet shooting in the basement of the Italian Rifle Club."

He finished his drink and sucked up some ice cubes, which he crushed with his teeth, sending a shiver down my spine. "Okay," he said finally. "So you do me another favour sometime."

I had no doubt about that. I replied, "If it's legal and possible, I'll do you a favour."

"Good. I just thought of a favour. You represent me with this murder rap. As a favour."

Checkmate. I took a deep breath and nodded.

"Good. I don't pay for favours."

"I don't charge for them."

Bellarosa smiled. "But I'll cover your expenses."

I shrugged. For a terrible moment, I thought Bellarosa was going to extend his hand to me across the table. I had this bizarre vision of a photo in the club newsletter, captioned: Mafia don and prominent attorney make deal at Creek. But he didn't want to shake, thank the Lord, and I changed the subject, saying, "I owe you money for the stable."

"Yeah. What did Dominic tell you?"

I told him Dominic's estimate but added, "It must have gone over that." "These greaseballs work cheap for the first few years. Then they learn a little English, and they see what's going on here, and they start screwing the customers like everybody else." He added, "That's the American dream." Not quite. I said, "Those guys didn't even make a minimum wage." He shrugged. "So what? They ain't gonna learn if you feel sorry for them and give them more. People got to be responsible for their own fuck-ups. Right?" "Yes, but I think you subsidized the job. I think you're trying to get me in your debt."

He didn't reply to that but asked, "You satisfied with the job and the price?"

"Yes."

"End of story."

"Whom do I pay?"

"You pay me. Stop by for coffee one day. Cash, cheque, it don't matter."

"All right."

Bellarosa leaned back, crossed his legs, and regarded me a moment. He said, "Now that you know you're not going to jail, you look happier." I would have been even happier if I knew that Frank Bellarosa was going to jail. What a mess. Bellarosa informed me, "Hey, that picture your wife is doing looks great. She won't let me look over her shoulder, you know. She chases me away, but when she's gone, I lift up the cloth and take a peek. She's a helluva painter." "I'm glad you like the painting."

"Yeah. I got to find a place of honour for it. Anna likes it, too. Now she can see what Susan is talking about. You know? The ruins. Anna and Susan are getting along pretty good."

"I'm happy to hear that. Your wife is very thoughtful to send over her cooking." I'd slipped back into my inane Wasp speech patterns now that the important business was done with, and I could see that Frank was miffed. He'd probably thought we were soul mates, talking about bribery, murder, and Beryl Carlisle's damp pants, but I wanted to show him that even if we wallowed in the same slops for a while, I could still soar like an eagle. I think he appreciated this on one level. That's what he was buying: an eagle. Pigs were cheaper. I became aware that something had caused a drop in the noise level. I looked toward the door and saw Susan coming toward me, Anna Bellarosa in tow. Anna was wearing another one of those loose, flowing pant suits, emerald green this time, and her feet were encased in white sandals, studded with sparkly rhinestones. She had on enough gold to cause a fluctuation in the precious metals markets.

Anna was stealing glances at her surroundings as she moved toward us, and she became aware that she was the centre of attention. Her face broke into a silly, self-conscious smile, and I was actually embarrassed for her. Poor Anna. I wondered if she knew why people were looking at her; that everyone there thought she was dressed funny, that she had the biggest hooters in the whole club, and that everyone had made the correct deduction that she was the Mafia don's wife. Susan, of course, was as self-possessed as a queen, completely at ease regarding her companion, whom she escorted as though Anna were European nobility. Frank and I rose as the women drew nigh, and we all exchanged greetings and kisses. The way I figured it, everybody in the lounge got their money's worth even at four bucks a drink. I also noticed no one was leaving. You have to understand, too, that despite what I said to Frank, Susan and I were not in immediate danger of social ostracism. No, John Whitman Sutter and Susan Stanhope Sutter could get away with a lot. People figure that the older the family, the more wacky and eccentric the members. Thus, just as radical chic was in during the sixties and seventies, with Rockefellers, Roosevelts, and so forth dining with black radicals and people without shoes, so perhaps criminal chic was in now. Maybe the Sutters were starting a trend. Take a criminal to The Creek.

The nouveaux riches among The Creek membership, however, would be the most vociferously judgemental, they being the most insecure and the most likely to be made uncomfortable by the Bellarosas, who reminded them of themselves when they lived in Lefrak City or Levittown.

Anyway, Susan looked stunning in a simple white silk dress, a sort of Greco-Roman thing that barely covered her knees and accentuated her tan. We all sat, and Charlie came over unbidden, because Lady Stanhope does not need a waiter summoned for her. Waiters, even in new restaurants, sense this and materialize by her side. This, by itself, is reason enough to stay married to her.

Drink orders were given, and the four of us fell into small talk. I said to Anna, "You look lovely tonight."

She smiled and her eyes sparkled. Clearly she liked me. For some reason, my eyes drifted to her cleavage, and there was that gold cross again, nestled between those voluptuous boobs, and if ever there was a mixed signal, that was it. Susan inquired of Frank and me, "Did you get your business finished?"

I replied, "Frank was very helpful."

"Good," Susan replied. She said to Frank, "My attorneys advised me to strike a separate deal with the government. In effect to abandon John. Can you believe that? What sort of people have we become?"

Bellarosa, on learning that Susan had her own attorneys, must have wondered the same thing. But to his credit he seemed to understand the underlying meaning of that question and replied, "Governments come and go. Laws come and go. You owe loyalty to family, to your own blood, and to your wife or your husband." He looked at me, "And if your wife has given you children and if she is a good wife, you owe loyalty to her family, too. Capisce?"

Frank, of course, hadn't met the Stanhopes. I mumbled a reply. Bellarosa continued, "If you betray family, you are damned to hell for eternity." He added, "If family betrays you, then no punishment is severe enough."

That sounded like something you'd pull out of a fortune cannoli if there were such a thing. I didn't mind the gospel according to Frank when we were alone, but when Susan was present, I didn't want it to appear that I actually hung on every grammatically incorrect piece of tripe he spouted. So I said, "What do you mean by betrayal? How about sexual betrayal?"

Forgetting that I'd said we didn't talk sex here, he replied, "A man can go with another woman without betraying his wife. This is the nature of a man. A wife cannot have another man without betraying her husband." I knew, of course, he was going to say something like that, and I wanted Susan to hear it, though I'm not certain why. A statement like that would usually set off a rather spirited discussion among two normal and contemporary couples, but if Frank Bellarosa had a weakness, it was this: The man had a faint sense of anachronism about him, a sort of 1950s persona, shaped by his unique subculture, his ethnic background, and his profession. He certainly understood the wider world in which he lived, and he understood human nature, which was why he made that statement and why, like it or not, it was a somewhat accurate statement. But he did not understand that you did not say things like that in America. You didn't refer to blacks as eggplants, and you didn't demean women or call Hispanics spies or make gross generalizations about women, minorities, the poor, the handicapped, immigrants, or any other group that was in special favour at the moment. Frank Bellarosa was not a sensitive man. Actually, he didn't have to be, which was one reason I was a little envious of him. I glanced at Susan, who, as I suspected, was not offended, only amused at this primitive sitting beside her.

Anna, of course, had no comment, nor would she ever. Frank went on, "But a man must be careful when he goes with a woman who is not his wife. Great men have been ruined because women made them forget loyalty, made them forget their friends, and opened the door to their enemies." I had the feeling Frank would have gone on but I wanted the subject changed, so I changed it. I said to Susan, "Frank told me he liked your painting." Susan smiled, then gave Bellarosa a stern look. "If he keeps peeking, I'm going to paint his face."

My, hadn't we become familiar with a Mafia don?

And so we chit-chatted through a round of drinks, giving our audience something to talk about over the weekend.

At eight, we retired to one of the dining rooms where Susan and I greeted a few people we knew and introduced the Bellarosas without using any of Frank's titles. No one, of course, snubbed the Bellarosas the way they would have twenty or thirty years ago. On the contrary, politeness grips most of American society now as if we'd been bombed with laughing gas, and your average white turkey will shake hands with a suspected murderer, converse on the street with bums who accost him, and probably open the door to armed robbers so as not to appear rude. Thus I knew we weren't going to have any scenes vis-a-vis the Bellarosas, and I was right.

We all sat, ordered more drinks, discussed the menu, and listened to the specials from Christopher, the maitre d', who Frank decided was a faggot. We placed our orders with Richard, an elderly gent who prided himself on remembering every order without writing it down. Alas, that is no longer the case, and hasn't been for some years, so with Richard as your waiter, you either eat what he brings, or you embarrass him by sending it back. I eat what he brings.

I asked for a certain Bordeaux that I knew would go well with everything we ordered. I did this without consulting the wine list. That's my little restaurant gimmick, and people are usually impressed. Frank and Anna didn't seem to give a shit.

Susan smilingly explained to the Bellarosas that they might not get precisely what they ordered, or in fact anything they ordered. They didn't find this as amusing as our peers usually do, who are used to the eccentricities of old clubs.

Susan ended her story by saying, "If we're lucky, Richard will bring the wrong wine with the wrong food and it might go well together." The Bellarosas seemed confused and incredulous. Frank demanded, "Why don't they fire the guy?"

I explained that the members would not permit the firing of an old employee. Frank seemed to comprehend that, being an employer, a padrone, the don, a man who rewards loyalty. I asked him, "You wouldn't fire someone who got too old for the job, would you?"

He replied with a smile, "I guess not, but I never knew nobody in my business who got too old." He laughed, and even I smiled. Susan chuckled, but Anna pretended not to hear or to understand. I think she would have liked to cross herself. Frank continued on his roll. "Sometimes I got to fire people, but sometimes I got to fire at people."

Three of us laughed. Anna studied a painting on the wall.

The appetizers came, two right, two wrong.

And so we dined, the Sutters and the Bellarosas. I was relaxed knowing that no one was going to be shot at our table. Susan was relaxed as well, unafraid, as I indicated, of social ostracism, but more than that, she was having a good time. In truth, the Bellarosas were more interesting than the Vandermeers, for instance, and certainly funnier once they got warmed up. Frank had a whole repertoire of jokes that were racist, sexist, dirty, and just plain offensive to anyone, Italians included. But the way he told them, with no apologies or self-consciousness, made them actually sound all right, and we all laughed until our faces hurt.

People around us seemed jealous that we were actually having a good time. The entrees came, one right, three wrong, but by this time no one cared. Susan had taken to calling me consigliere, which Frank found funny, but which I, even though drunk, didn't find terribly amusing.

Richard tried a few times to take away Frank's green salad, which had been untouched. But Frank told him to leave it, and the next time Richard reached for it, Frank grabbed his wrist. "Look, pal," said Bellarosa, "I said leave the fucking salad alone."

This sort of stopped the action for a few seconds. Richard backed off, almost bowing as he rubbed his wrist. I was glad for this little incident, for it assured me that Frank Bellarosa was who and what Alphonse Ferragamo said he was. And like most sociopaths, Mr Bellarosa had a short fuse and was liable to go from laughing to explosive violence in about one second. Even Susan, I saw, who found Bellarosa charming, interesting, and all that, was a bit taken aback. Frank realized he should not have bared his fangs in human company and explained with a wave of the hand, "Italians eat their salad after the main course. Cleans the palate. I guess that guy didn't know that."

I guess he does now, Frank.

Frank ate his salad.

After about fifteen minutes, everybody forgot or made believe they forgot that Frank had forgotten his manners. In fact, Frank went out of his way to be nice to Richard, explaining about the salad, making a few dumb jokes about Italian waiters, and generally assuring Richard that he could move about the table freely without fear of losing a body part. Richard dropped a dish nevertheless. We ordered coffee and dessert, and Frank ordered four glasses of marsala wine, explaining to Richard that Italians often had marsala with or before dessert, sometimes with cheese. Richard, who didn't give a shit, pretended to be fascinated.

The meal ended happily, without bloodshed or further incident, except that Frank insisted on paying even after I explained that no money could be used in the club. Finally, frustrated in his attempt to make amends with me, he shoved some bills in Richard's waistcoat pocket.

The truly inebriated never know when to quit, so we retired to a small study for liqueurs. A sleepy cocktail waitress glanced at her watch in preparation for telling us it was too late, then noticed Frank Bellarosa, who I knew had been pointed out to her at some time during the evening. She smiled and asked, "What can I get for you?"

Frank took it upon himself to order for everyone. "Sambuca, and you got to put three beans in each glass for good luck. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." She hurried off.

Frank offered me a cigar and I took it. We lit up and smoked. The cordials came with a whole plate of coffee beans so we could make our own luck. Frank said, "I got to take you two to a little place down on Mott Street. Little Italy, you know? A place called Giulio's. I'll teach you how to eat Italian." I asked, "Do we need bulletproof vests?"

You never know with a guy like Bellarosa what he's going to find funny. Susan sort of chuckled. Anna seemed sad. But Frank laughed. "Nah. They give you them when you sit. Like bibs."

We finished our cordials and I stood unsteadily. "They want to close up here."

Frank sprung out of his chair. "Come on back to my place." Susan accepted simultaneous to my declining. We're usually pretty much in sync when it comes to things like this, and we can communicate with a glance. But clearly we weren't on the same wavelength this evening. I said to Susan, "I have a busy day tomorrow. You can go if you wish."

"I guess I'll go home."

Frank seemed neither disappointed nor relieved, though Anna looked at me in an odd way, almost as if she and I were simpatico, and the other two were nuts. Susan and Anna had arrived in Frank's Cadillac, driven by the wheelman/bodyguard, and Susan and I accepted Frank's invitation to be driven home, as we were both somewhat impaired.

We staggered out into the balmy night, and Frank's car quickly pulled up to us as if the driver, out of force of habit, thought we'd just robbed the place. We all squeezed into the backseat, which people who don't know each other well won't usually do if they're stone sober. Somehow, the order of seating turned out to be Susan, Frank, Anna, and me. The car pulled away and we all swayed and laughed. It was really tight, given Anna's ample hips, and so it seemed natural that Susan wound up half on Bellarosa's lap. Anna, for her part, seemed embarrassed if not actually panicky about the proximity of her right thigh and breast to my left thigh and arm, respectively. It didn't matter what was going on to her immediate left. Amazing.

Anyway, we laughed and joked, and it was all very silly, typical middle-aged suburbanites having alcoholic fun that in the morning would be embarrassing if you were stupid enough to think about it.

The driver, a man whom Frank called Lenny, actually checked us out in his rearview mirror and even glanced over his shoulder at me once. Lenny was a smirker, and I wanted to bash my fist in his idiotic young face, or tell Frank to put a bullet in the back of his head.

Anyway, Lenny seemed to know the way, pulling right through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, and without hesitation finding his way along the unlighted road to our house. Interesting. Lenny got out and opened Susan's door, helping her off Bellarosa's knee and onto the ground. I exited without help, unless you count Anna rearranging her hips, which inadvertently propelled me out the door. Susan and I waved good-bye to the black windows of the Bellarosas' Cadillac, then went inside and climbed the stairs to our bedroom. We undressed and fell into bed. Susan and I both sleep au naturel all year round, which means the honeymoon is not over, and gives our young, Hispanic laundress something to talk about, i.e., "I no wash no nightgowns or pyjamas at Stanhope Hall, but mi Dios, those sheets!"

Anyway, on the same subject, Susan reached over and grabbed me, finding, I'm afraid, not even four fingers' worth of John. I informed her, "I've had too much to drink."

Susan does not take that as a rejection, but as a challenge. In fact, once she gets going she could make my tie hard.

"Pretend," she said, "that I'm Anna Bellarosa, and we swapped spouses for the night."

"Okay." There was a distinct physical difference between Susan and Anna, so I had to pretend real hard. Susan switched off the lamp to facilitate this. She said, "I'm with Frank now, in the back of his car, and we're getting out of our clothes as the chauffeur is driving us around."

I didn't like that image, but a part of me must have because I felt that part getting harder in Susan's hand, and she giggled. "See?" she said. "There you go." She added, "And you're going to fuck Anna Bellarosa now. She's never been with any man except her husband, and she's shy, terrified, but excited. And you know she's going to love how you do it to her, and you're wondering how and when you're going to return her to her husband, and when he's going to give me back to you, and what we're all going to say to one another." My goodness, what an imagination this woman had. And she knows what turns me on, which can be a little uncomfortable for me. I mean, now that I thought about it, the idea of wife-swapping had briefly crossed my fuzzy mind on the way home in the car.

Anyway, there I was on my back, with Susan's hand cupped around my penis which was rising like an ICBM out of its silo. I heard her say, "Oh, my God, John, you're bigger than Frank."

"What?"

She said in a Brooklyn accent, "I can't get alia this insida me. Please don't put it in me. My husband will kill me for this. He'll kill you." "He's fucking Susan right now," I pointed out. "Your husband is fucking my wife."

She said, "I am betraying my husband. God forgive me." I replied, "I'm just having sex." I rolled over on top of her and brought her legs over my shoulders. "What are you doing?" she cried. "What are you going to do?" I thrust myself inside her and she let out a startled sound. As I made love to her, she moaned, sobbed, then settled down and began to enjoy herself. Between deep breaths, she gasped a few words in Italian which I didn't understand, but they sounded sexy and raunchy.

Well, look, I mean, we're a little kinky, okay? But we knew where to draw the line and always had. But this time, for some reason, I had the feeling that we'd gone beyond the bounds of our game. Fantasy was one thing, but bringing people like the Bellarosas into our bedroom was dangerous. What was happening to us? Afterwards, as we lay on the bed, uncustomarily separated by a few feet of sheets, Susan said, "I think we should go away. On vacation." "Together?"

She let a few seconds go by, then replied, "Of course. We have to get out of here, John. Now. Before it's too late."

I didn't feel like asking what she meant by too late. I answered, "I can't go now. There's too much happening."

She didn't say anything for a long time, then replied, "Don't forget I asked." And to be fair to her even in light of what happened, I'll never forget that she asked.

CHAPTER 20

July. The best-laid summer plans of hardworking men often go astray, and this promised to be as screwed up a summer as I'd had since my induction into the army.

Mr Melzer got in touch with me as Frank Bellarosa had said he would. We met, at Mr Melzer's insistence, at my house. He arrived at the appointed hour, six P.M. on a Wednesday, and I showed him into my study.

Mr Melzer was a white-haired gentleman, rather soft-spoken, which had surprised me on the telephone, and his voice fit his appearance as I now saw. He was dressed in a dove-grey suit that was expensive and surprisingly tasteful. His shoes were not only real, but they were lizard at about a thousand dollars a pair.

My, my, Mr Melzer, you struck it rich, didn't you? I wished Mr Novac could see his former co-worker.

We sat in my study, but I didn't offer Mr Melzer anything but a chair. As he was a renegade, I had expected Mr Melzer to have somewhat of a furtive look about him. But he seemed instead completely at ease, and at times rather grave, as if what we were discussing was very weighty and thus very expensive. I didn't dislike the man immediately as I'd disliked Novac, but there was something a bit oily about Mr Melzer, and I supposed he'd acquired that lubrication after he'd left the IRS, which is not known for greasing the shaft. The lizard shoes seemed appropriate footwear for Mr Melzer. After fifteen minutes or so of conversation, he informed me, "I require twenty thousand dollars as a retainer."

That was actually reasonable considering the case. I would require more if it were my case. But then he added, "I take half of what I save you in taxes." "Half? Attorneys are only allowed by law to charge a third of what they get a client in a civil suit."

"I'm not an attorney, Mr Sutter. There is no law governing my fee. Also, you understand, I have rather heavy expenses."

"You don't even have an office."

"I've got other expenses. You don't want to know about them." "No, I don't." I looked him in the eye. "And there will be no criminal charges for tax fraud."

"No criminal charges, Mr Sutter."

"All right. You're hired."

He added, "However, according to what you've told me, you do owe the government most of that money. Perhaps all of it. But I can and will get it reduced. I have a good incentive to do that. You see?"

There is no harder worker than a former government employee who has discovered the word incentive.

He continued, "And I will try to work out a payout schedule, but I must tell you, when they settle for less, they want it quickly."

"Fine. But I don't want to see or hear from Novac again."

"I'll deal with Steve."

Steve? I asked him, "How and when do you want to be paid your retainer?"

"A cheque is fine, and now would be convenient."

"Not for me. I'll send you a cheque next week. But I want you to begin work as of now." When clients say this to me, I raise my eyebrows like lawyers do. But Mr Melzer just waved his hand. "You are a friend of Mr Bellarosa. There is no problem with payment."

That could be taken at least two ways. I stood and Mr Melzer stood also. He went to the window. I said to him, "It's easier to get out through this door." He laughed softly and explained, "I was admiring your place when I drove in." He motioned out the window. "It's very impressive."

"It was."

"Yes, was. It's incredible, isn't it, Mr Sutter, how the rich lived before income taxes?"

"Yes, it is."

"It always pained me, when I was with the government, to see how much hard-earned personal wealth was taken through taxes." "It pains me, too, Mr Melzer. Truly it does. And I'm happy for your conversion." I added, "But we must all pay some taxes, and I don't mind paying my fair share."

He turned from the window and smiled at me but said nothing.

I walked to the door. "And you're certain you don't require my tax records?" "I don't think so, Mr Sutter. I approach the problem differently." He added, "It's their records on you that interest me."

"I see. And how can I reach you if the need arises?"

"I'll call you in a week." Mr Melzer walked to the door, hesitated, and said, "You're probably bitter about this, Mr Sutter, and you're probably thinking about some individuals who don't pay their fair share of taxes." "They have to live with that mortal sin, Mr Melzer. I simply want to settle up with my Uncle Sam. I'm a patriot, and a former Boy Scout." Again, Mr Melzer smiled. I could see that he thought I was a cut above the average tax cheat. He informed me, "People who don't pay any taxes, the real tax evaders, appear to live like the old robber barons. But I assure you, eventually they go to jail. There is justice."

That was similar to what Mr Mancuso had told me. That assurance must come with government work. They must know something I don't know. I replied, "And I would be happy to sit on the jury." I held the door open for him. He took another step toward the door, then again turned to me. "Perhaps I could use your services one day. I do very well, you understand, but I have no law degree."

"Which is why you do very well, instead of just fairly well."

He chuckled. "You're well-known in the Manhattan IRS office. Did you know that?" I suspected I was, but didn't know for certain. I asked, "Do they throw darts at my picture?"

"Actually, when I worked there, we had a whole wall in the coffee room captioned "Rogues' Gallery."' He smiled, but I was not amused. He added, "Not photos, of course, but names and Social Security numbers. Not of tax cheats, you understand, but of attorneys and CPAs who beat the IRS at their own game. They don't like that. So, you see, I knew you, or of you, before I heard from you." He paused, then said, "So, it is ironic, is it not, that you should find yourself in need of tax assistance from me?"

Irony to me often smells like a put-up job, and that's what he was hinting at.

So I asked him, "Do you believe this case is a personal vendetta against me?"

He let a meaningful second pass before answering, "Who can say for sure? Bureaucrats can be so petty. The point is, even if they did single you out, they did find something, did they not? Even if it is a technicality." A rather expensive technicality. Well, if the only fitting death for a lion tamer is to get eaten by a lion, then the only fitting financial death for a tax man is to get eaten by the IRS.

Mr Melzer returned to his original subject and asked, "I would like to call on you for advice."

This was hardly the moment to tell him to fuck off, so I said, "I'm available for my usual hourly rate."

"Good. And would you be available for more extensive work? For instance, would you consider forming a limited partnership?"

Mamma mia, I was getting more offers than a Twelfth Avenue whore. I replied wryly, "I hardly think that a man who is facing charges of tax fraud would be an asset to you, Mr Melzer."

"You're too modest."

"You're too kind."

"Mr Sutter, I could double your present income in the first year."

"So could I, Mr Melzer, if I chose to. Good evening."

He took the heavy hint, put it around his neck, and left with a hanging head. I felt I needed a shower, but made a drink instead. I loosened my tie and sat in my armchair, wiping my forehead with a handkerchief. These old houses, all stone and with no duct work, are nearly impossible to air-condition properly, and my study was hot in the July heat. I could get a few window air conditioners, I suppose, but that looks tacky, and people around here are more concerned with appearances than comfort. That's why we wear ties and jackets in the heat. Sometimes I think we're crazy. Sometimes I know we are. I sipped on a gin and tonic, my summer drink, made with real Schweppes quinine to ward off malaria, and real Boodles gin to ward off reality. Double your present income. My God, I thought, this used to be a nation that produced useful goods, built railroads and steamships, and subdued a continent. Now we perform silly services, make paper deals, and squander the vast accumulated capital of two hundred years of honest labour. If Melzer could double my income to about $600,000, then Melzer must be good for over a million himself. And what did he do for that million? He fixed tax problems that were in large part created by people like himself. And the bozo probably went to a second-rate state university and squeaked out a degree in accounting. I made myself another drink.

Communism was dead, and American capitalism had a bad cough. So who and what would inherit the earth? Not the meek, as the Reverend Mr Hunnings preached. Not the parasites, such as Melzer, who could survive only while the organism was alive. Not Lester Remsen, who, though he specialized in mining and industrial stocks, wouldn't know a lump of coal from a cow pie. And certainly not me or my children, who had evolved along very narrow lines to be masters of a world that no longer existed.

People like the Stanhopes might survive because their ancestors had stashed away enough acorns to last for a long time. People like Bellarosa might survive if they could make deals with the new wolves in the woods. Evolution, not revolution. That was what America was all about. But you had to evolve fast. I took my gin and tonic and went out on the back terrace. Susan, who had taken to drinking Campari and soda this summer (probably because it was served at Alhambra), joined me outside. She asked, "Is everything all right?" "Yes. But I need to borrow twenty thousand from you."

"I'll have a cheque drawn to you tomorrow."

"Thank you. I'll have it back to you as soon as I unload some stocks. What is your interest rate?"

"The vig is one percent a week, compounded daily, and you got ninety days to pay up the principal or I break your legs." She laughed.

I glanced at her. "Where did you learn that? Next door?"

"No, no. I'm reading a book about the Mafia."

"Why?"

"Why? You read books on local trees, I read books on local wildlife." She added, "Those wiseguys are not nice people."

"No kidding."

"But they make much better interest on their investments than my stupid trustees do."

"So tell Bellarosa you want to capitalize his loan-sharking." She thought a moment, then said, "Somehow, I think Frank is different. He's trying to go a hundred-percent legitimate."

"He told you that?"

"Of course not. Anna did. But in a roundabout way. She doesn't even admit he's head of a Mafia family. I guess, like me, she never saw it in the papers." "Susan," I replied, "Frank Bellarosa is the number-one criminal in New York, perhaps in America. He could not legitimize his business or his life even if he wanted to, and I assure you he does not want to."

She shrugged. "Did you see that article in today's Times?

"Yes. Are you reading the newspapers now?"

"Someone told me to read that."

"I see." The article in question concerned an announcement made by Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, the United States Attorney for New York's Southern District. Mr Ferragamo stated that he was presenting evidence to a federal grand jury that was looking into allegations that Mr Frank Bellarosa, an alleged underworld figure, was involved in the death of a Mr Juan Carranza, a Colombian citizen and a reputed drug dealer. The federal government was involved in the case, Mr Ferragamo stated, because both the victim and the suspect were reputed to be involved in ongoing interstate and international racketeering. Thus, the government was seeking a federal indictment for first-degree murder. I always liked the New York Times' understated style, calling everyone 'Mr,' and inserting lots of 'reputed's and 'alleged's. It all sounded so civilized. The Times should have heard what I heard in Bellarosa's study: fucking Ferragamo, fucking Carranza, fucking Feds, spies, shitheads, and melanzane. I made a mental note to pick up tomorrow's New York Post and Daily News and get the real scoop. Susan said, "Carolyn and Edward will be home tomorrow or the next day. But only for a few weeks, I'm afraid."

"I see." Neither of them had come home directly after school. Carolyn had gone to the summer home of her roommate's parents in Cape Cod, and Edward had remained at St Paul's for some vague reason, probably having to do with a girl. I asked Susan, "Where are they going in a few weeks?" "Carolyn is going to Cuba with a student exchange group to promote world peace and perfect her Spanish. Edward and some other graduating seniors are going to Cocoa Beach where there is a house available to them. I don't think they're going to promote world peace."

"Well, but that's admirable on both counts. World peace begins with inner peace, with solving the problem of the groin area first."

"That's very profound, John."

I don't think she meant that. I should tell you that Susan finances these trips of Carolyn's and Edward's. The Stanhope money, in fact, has been a problem in the children's upbringing from the beginning. I don't say that Carolyn and Edward are spoiled; they are bright and they work hard in school. But their early nurturing was left to nannies hired by the Stanhopes. And their formative years were spent in boarding schools, which, while customary around here, is not mandatory. But I went along with it. So now, in a way, I barely know my children. I don't know what they think, what they feel, or who they are. Neither does Susan. I think we missed something, and I think they did, too. July, so far, sucked.

Lester Remsen called me at my Locust Valley office one morning. The purpose of the call was social not business. Or more accurately, it was the business of being social. "John," he said, "we had a meeting up at the club last night, and the subject was you."

"Who was at the meeting?"

"Well… that's not important -"

"It most certainly is to me if I was the subject of the meeting." "It's more important what the meeting was about. It was about -" "If it's important, Lester, we will present the topic at the next regularly scheduled meeting of the board. I will not be talked about behind my back in an unscheduled session of self-appointed busybodies who want to remain anonymous. This is a nation of law, and I am a lawyer. Capisce?"

"What?"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, but -"

"While I have you on the phone, Lester, Mrs Lauderbach called and told me you suggested she sell half her American Express and buy United Bauxite. Why?" "Why? I'll tell you why." Whereupon he launched into a sales pitch.

I interrupted and asked, "What is bauxite?"

"It's… it's like… an important… I guess you'd say mineral…"

"It's aluminium ore. Hardworking men dig it out of the ground so people can have beer cans."

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

"Who makes biscuits? U.S. Steel?"

"USX. That's U.S. Steel now. They make… steel."

"Leave the Lauderbach account alone, Lester, or I'll pull it from you" He mumbled something, then before I could hang up, he said, "Listen, John, let me return to the other thing for a moment. I want to talk to you about that. Just between us."

"Talk."

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

"For what?"

"For what you said to me at the club."

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

"I don't know what you're talking about. I want you to apologize for telling me to go fuck myself."

"I apologize."

"Oh… okay… next thing. The Bellarosa thing. I have to tell you, John, twenty years ago you'd have been asked to resign for that little stunt. We're all a little looser now, but by the same token, we're all a little more concerned about all these new people moving in. We don't want the club to get a reputation for being a place where these people can come, even as guests. We certainly do not want it known that a notorious Mafia boss is a regular at The Creek." "Lester, I have no desire to cause you or other club members any distress. I am as big a snob as you are. However, if John Sutter wishes to sup with the devil at the club, it is no business of yours or anyone's as long as no club rules are broken."

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

"No."

"Then let me put it this way. My prediction is that by the end of this century, Frank Bellarosa will be on the club board, or perhaps there won't be a Creek Country Club. And when it's a town park or a shopping mall, everyone can go there, and we can complain about tight parking and rowdy kids." "You may be right," said Lester unexpectedly. "But until then, John, we would appreciate it if you didn't bring Mr Bellarosa in as a guest." "I will think about that."

"Please do," Lester said. "My best regards to Susan."

"And my regards to Judy. And Lester…?"

"Yes?"

"Go fuck yourself."

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

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

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

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

We approached the clubhouse by way of a gravel drive. The house is a three-storey building of grey cedar shingle and white trim, with a side veranda and gabled roofs. The building dates back to the 1880s and was built in a unique architectural style, which, on the East Coast, is called the American Shingle style. This is a sort of hybrid, combining native cedar shingles with classical ornamentation, though the classical touches are not of marble, but of white-painted wood. The clubhouse in fact had mock wooden pilasters all around, their capitals vaguely Corinthian, hence, I suppose, the club's second name. The Seawanhaka are an extinct tribe of Long Island Indians. Thus, the club's name, while as odd and hybrid as its architecture, has as its unifying theme the evocation of extinct civilizations, which may be fitting. Anyway, it is a beautifully simple building, unpretentious, yet dignified, a combination of rough-hewn Americana with just a bit of frivolity, like an early settler in a homespun dress with imported ribbons in her hair. Carolyn parked the Bronco and we climbed out, making our way to the clubhouse. The dining room faces out onto Oyster Bay, and we took a table near the large, multi-paned window. I could see our boat, the thirty-six-foot Morgan, at the end of a distant pier. The boat is named Paumanok, after the old Indian name for Long Island.

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

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

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

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

Rather than pretend that it was, or be evasive, I replied, "We've had some problems here. You both know about our new neighbours?" Edward sat up and took notice. "Yeah! Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. He threatening you? We'll go knock him off." He laughed.

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

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

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

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

"What if his goons come after me?"

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

Carolyn said to me and to her mother, "I wouldn't let other people tell me whom to associate with."

Susan replied, "We certainly don't. But some of our old friends are disappointed. Actually, there was an incident at The Creek a few weeks ago." Susan related, in general terms, our evening with the Bellarosas. She concluded, "Your father got a call from someone about it, and I got two calls." Carolyn mulled this over. She is, as I indicated, a serious young woman, self-assured, directed, and ambitious. She will do well in law school. She is attractive in a well-kempt sort of way, and I can picture her with glasses though she doesn't wear them, dressed in a dark suit, high heels, and carrying a briefcase. A lady lawyer, as we old legal beagles say. She gave us her considered opinion. "You have a constitutional right to associate with whomever you please."

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

"Yes," Carolyn agreed, "within the right to free association is the implied right not to associate."

"And likewise, my club has the right to discriminate." She hesitated there, because Carolyn is what we call a liberal. She asked, "Why don't you both just leave here? This place is anachronistic and discriminatory." "That's why we like it," I said, and got a frown. Carolyn reminds me in many respects of my mother, whom she admires for her social activism. Carolyn is a member of several campus organizations that I find suspect, but I won't argue politics with anyone under forty. I asked her, "Where do you think we should go?"

"Go to Galveston and live on the beach with Aunt Emily." "Not a bad idea." Carolyn also likes Emily because Emily broke the bonds of corporate wifedom and is now a beachcomber. Carolyn, though, would not do that. Her generation of iconoclasts are a bit less wild than mine, better dressed for sure, and won't leave home without their credit cards. Still, I think she is sincere. I said, "Maybe we'll go to Cuba with you and see about world peace." "Why don't we order?" asked Susan, who always suspects me of baiting her daughter.

Carolyn said to me, "I don't think Cuba is a good place, if that's what you're thinking. But I think by going there I can understand it better." Edward said, "Who cares about Cuba, Cari? Come to Cocoa Beach and I'll introduce you to my friends." He grinned at her.

She said icily, "I wouldn't be caught dead with your twerpy friends." "Yeah? How come when I brought Geoffrey home for Christmas, you hung around us all week?"

"I did not."

"You did."

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

"And why can't you learn to pick up your socks?"

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

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

As we ate, Carolyn brought up the subject of Frank Bellarosa again. She asked me, "Does he know what you do for a living, Dad? Has he asked for tax advice?" "On the contrary, I've asked him for tax advice. It's a long story. But now he wants me to represent him if he is indicted for murder." Again, it was Edward who failed to see any problem there. "Murder? Wow! No kidding? Did he kill somebody? Are you going to get him off?" "I don't actually think he did kill the person that he may be charged with killing."

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

"I think he trusts me. I think he believes that I would make a good appearance on his behalf. I don't think he would ask me to defend him if he were guilty. He thinks that if I believe in his innocence, then a jury would believe me." Carolyn nodded. "He sounds like a smart man."

"So am I."

She smiled at me. "We all know that, Dad."

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

"I don't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

I glanced at Susan, then informed Edward and Carolyn, "We may be selling the East Hampton house, and it may be gone before August." Edward looked up from his pie as though he hadn't heard me correctly. "Selling it? Selling the summer house? Why?"

"Tax problems," I explained.

"Oh… I was sort of looking forward to going out there."

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

"You're not around much."

"We can talk on the phone."

"We can. We will."

After a few seconds she said, "There's been a lot of things going on around here."

"Yes, but nothing to be concerned about."

After a few seconds, she asked, "Are things all right between you and Mom?" I saw that coming and replied without hesitation, "The relationship between a husband and wife is no one's business, Cari, not even their children's. Remember that when you marry."

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

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

"Yes, but not with each other. We already told you about the other thing.

Subject closed."

We reached the pier and stood looking at each other. Carolyn said, "Mom is not herself. I can tell." I didn't reply.

She added, "And neither are you."

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

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

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

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

The Morgan is ideal for the Long Island Sound, perfect for trips up to Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Block Island, and out to Provincetown. The Morgan's major drawback in the bays and coves is its deep keel, but that's what makes it a safe family boat on the open seas. In fact, the original Morgan was developed by J. P. Morgan for his children, and he designed it with safety in mind. It's sort of an ideal club boat: good-looking and prestigious without being pretentious.

It would actually be possible for me to make a trans-Atlantic crossing with this boat, but not advisable. And now that my children are older, the plodding Morgan may not be what I need. What I need, really need, is a sleek Allied fifty-five footer that will take me anywhere in the world. I would also need a crew, of course, as few as two people, preferably three or four. I imagined myself at the helm of the Allied, heading east toward Europe, a rising sun on the horizon, the high bow cutting through the waves. I saw my crew at their tasks: Sally Grace mopping the deck, Beryl Carlisle holding my coffee mug, and the delicious Terri massaging my neck. Down in the galley is Sally Ann of the Stardust Diner making breakfast, and impaled on the bowsprit is the stuffed head of Zanzibar.

I took the Morgan west, past Bayville, where I could make out the lights of the infamous Rusty Hawsehole. I continued west into the setting sun, around Matinecoc Point and then south, tacking into the wind toward Hempstead Harbor. I skirted the west shore of the harbour, sailing past Castle Gould and Falaise, then turned in toward the centre of the harbour where I ordered the sails lowered. Carolyn and Edward let out the anchor, and we grabbed fast, the boat drifting around its mooring with the wind and the incoming tide. In the distance, on the eastern shore, the village of Sea Cliff clung to tall bluffs, its Victorian houses barely visible in the fading light. A few hundred yards north of Sea Cliff was Garvie's Point, where Susan and I had made love on the beach.

The sun had sunk below the high bluffs of Sands Point, and I could see stars beginning to appear in the eastern sky. I watched as they blinked on, east to west behind the spreading purple.

None of us spoke, we just broke out some beer and drank, watching the greatest show on earth, a nautical sunset: the rose-hued clouds, the starry black fringe on the far horizon, the rising moon, and the gulls gliding over the darkening waters.

You have to pay close attention to a nautical sunset or you will miss the subtleties of what is happening. So we sat quietly for a long time, me, Susan, Carolyn, and Edward, until finally, by silent consensus, we agreed it was night. Susan said, "Cari, let's make some tea." They went below. I climbed onto the cabin deck and steadied myself against the mast. Edward followed. We both stared out into the black waters. I said to him, "Are you looking forward to college?"

"No."

"They will be the best years of your life."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"Everyone is right."

He shrugged. Presently, he asked, "What kind of tax problems?"

"I just owe some taxes."

"Oh… and you have to sell the house?"

"I think so."

"Can you wait?"

I smiled. "For what? Until you use it in August?"

"No… until I'm twenty-one. I can give you the money in my trust fund when I'm twenty-one."

I didn't reply, because I couldn't speak.

He said, "I don't need all of it."

I cleared my throat. "Well, Grandma and Grandpa Stanhope meant that money to be for you." And they'd have apoplexy if you gave it to me. "It's gonna be my money. I want to give it to you if you need it."

"I'll let you know."

"Okay."

We listened to the waves breaking against the distant shore. I looked out to the east. Farther north of Garvie's Point, about five hundred yards from where we lay at anchor, I could see the lights of the big white colonial house on the small headland. I pointed to it. "Do you see that big house there?" "Yes."

"There was a long pier there once, beginning between those two tall cedars. See them?"

"Yes."

"Imagine where the pier ended. Do you see anything there?" He looked in the black water, then said, "No."

"Look harder, Skipper. Squint. Concentrate."

He stared, then said, "Maybe… something…"

"What?"

"I don't know. When I stare, I think I can see… what do you call that stuff…?

That algae stuff that grows in the water and glows kind of spooky green?

Bioluminescence…? Yeah. I see it."

"Do you? Good."

"What about it?"

"That's your green light, Skipper. I think it means go."

"Go where?"

I'm not good at the father-son talk, but I wanted to tell him, so somewhat self-consciously I replied, "Go wherever you want. Be whatever you want to be. For me, that green light is the past, for you it is the future." I took his hand in mine. "Don't lose sight of it."

CHAPTER 21

In retrospect, I should have tried the Atlantic crossing with my family and never returned to America; a sort of decolonization of the Sutters and the Stanhopes. We could have sailed into Plymouth, burned the Paumanok, set up a fish-and-chips stand on the beach, and lived happily ever after. But Americans don't emigrate, at least not very many of us do, and the few who do don't do it well. We have created our own land and culture, and we simply don't fit anywhere else, not even in the lands of our ancestors, who can barely tolerate us on two-week holidays. In truth, while I admire Europe, I find the Europeans a bit tiresome, especially when they complain about Americans. So we didn't cross the Atlantic, and we didn't emigrate, but we had a spectacular weekend of sailing with sunny weather and good winds. We had stayed at anchor in Hempstead Harbor Friday evening, and at daybreak we set sail for Cape Cod, putting in at Provincetown for a few hours of sightseeing and shopping. Actually, after about an hour in town, Susan told Carolyn and Edward that she and I had to go back to the boat to get my wallet. Carolyn and Edward sort of grinned knowingly. I was a little embarrassed. Susan told them to meet us in front of the old Provincetown Hotel in three hours. "Three hours?" asked Edward, still smiling.

I mean, it's good for children to know that their parents have an active sex life, but you don't want to give them the impression that you can't go without it for a day or two. However, Susan was very cool about it and said to Edward, "Yes, three hours. Don't be late."

I took out my wallet and gave them each some money, realizing as I did so that I had created a slight inconsistency in the wallet story. But good kids that they are, they pretended not to see the wallet in my hands.

Anyway, on the way back to the dock, I said to Susan, "That took me by surprise."

"Oh, you handled it quite well, John, until you pulled out your wallet." She laughed.

"Well, they knew anyway." I said, "Remember when we used to tuck them into their berths at night, then go out on top of the cabin and do it?" "I remember you used to tell them that if they heard noises on the roof, it was only Mommy and Daddy doing their sit-ups."

"Push-ups."

We both laughed.

So, we took the Paumanok out again and sailed past the three-mile limit where sexual perversions are legal. We found a spot where no other craft were nearby, and I said to Susan, "What did you have in mind?"

What she had in mind was going below, then reappearing on the aft deck stark naked. We were still under sail, and I was at the helm, and she stood in front of me and said, "Captain, First Mate Cynthia reporting for punishment as ordered."

My goodness. I looked at her standing at attention, those cat-like green eyes sparkling in the sunlight, the breeze blowing through her long red hair. I love this woman's body, the taut legs and arms, the fair skin, and the big red bush of pubic hair.

"Reporting for punishment as ordered," she prompted.

"Right. Right." I thought a moment. "Scrub the deck."

"Yes, sir."

She went below and came back with a bucket and scrub brush, then leaned over the side and scooped up a bucket of salt water. She got down on her hands and knees and began scrubbing the deck around my feet.

"Don't get any of that on me," I said, "or you'll get a dozen lashes across your rump."

"Yes, sir… oops." She tipped the bucket over, and the salt water soaked my Docksides. I think she did that on purpose.

She rose to her knees and threw her arms around my legs. "Oh, Captain, please forgive me! Please don't whip me." She buried her head in my groin. You know, for a woman who's a bitch in real life, a real ball-buster if you'll pardon the expression, Susan has a rather strange alter ego. I mean, her favourite and most recurring roles are those of subservient and defenceless women. Someday, I'm going to ask a shrink friend of mine about this, though of course I'll change the names to protect the kinky.

Anyway, I made Susan lower the sails and drop anchor so we could stop for a little punishment. I tied her wrists to the mainmast and delivered a dozen lashes with my belt to her rump. Needless to say, these were light love-taps, though she squirmed and begged me to stop.

Well, we passed the next hour in this fashion, Susan performing all sorts of menial tasks in the nude, bringing me coffee, polishing the brass, cleaning the head. I can't get this woman to clean the crumbs out of the toaster at home, but she really enjoys being a naked slave on board the boat. It's good for her, I think, and very good for the boat.

Anyway, after about an hour she said to me, "Please, sir, may I put my clothes on?"

I was sitting on the deck, my back against the cabin bulkhead, sipping a cup of coffee. I replied, "No. You can get down on the deck on your hands and knees and spread your legs."

She did what I ordered and waited patiently while I finished my coffee. I rose to my knees, lowered my pants, and entered her from behind. She was sopping wet as I discovered, and I wasn't in her for more than ten seconds when she came, and about five seconds later it was my turn.

On the way back into Provincetown, Susan, who was fully dressed again, seemed somewhat distant. I had the impression that there was something very weighty on her mind. In fact, if I thought about it, Susan's behaviour over the past month or so had alternated between periods of clinging affection and bouts of sulkiness and withdrawal. I'm used to her moods, her sullenness, and her general nuttiness, but this was something different. As Carolyn observed, Susan was not herself. But then again, I was not myself either.

As we sailed back to Provincetown, with me at the helm, I said to her, "Maybe you were right. Maybe we should get away. We could take the boat down to the Caribbean and disappear for a few months – The hell with civilization." She didn't reply for a few seconds, then said, "You have to settle your tax problem before it becomes a criminal matter."

Which was true, and like most Americans, I resented any government intrusion into my life that caused me an inconvenience. I said, "Well, then, as soon as I take care of that, we should leave."

She replied, "Don't you think you owe Frank something?"

I glanced at her. "Like what?"

"Well, you promised him you would handle that charge against him." She added, "When you told Carolyn and Edward about it, you made it sound as if you still hadn't decided."

I stared out at the horizon for a while. I don't like people telling me how to run my business, or reminding me of what I said. Also, I didn't recall telling Susan that I promised Bellarosa I'd handle the murder charge. She said, "Didn't you exchange favours or something?"

I said, "I suppose we did." I asked. "Why does it concern you?" "Well, that's your challenge. I think it would do you some good to get involved in a criminal case."

"Do you? Do you understand it would probably end my career with Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds if I represented a Mafia don? Not to mention what it would do to us socially."

She shrugged. "I don't care, John, and neither do you. You've already chucked it all in your mind anyway." She added, "Go for it."

"All right. I will."

On Saturday afternoon, we sailed out of Provincetown and headed south again to Long Island, spotting land at Montauk Point, which we rounded against a strong wind and tricky currents.

Out in the Atlantic, about forty miles southeast of Montauk, we saw whales spouting in the distance and we headed toward them but could not keep up. While still not a common sight, in recent years I've seen more whales, which is good news. But an hour later, we had a less happy sighting; not fifty yards off our port bow, the conning tower of a huge black submarine broke the water and rose up like some ancient obsidian monolith, dwarfing the thirty-six-foot Morgan. The tower had numbers on it but no other markings, and Edward gasped. "My God… is it ours?"

I replied, "No, it is theirs."

"The Russians?"

"The government's. Russian or American. The Sutters don't own any nuclear submarines."

And that, I think, completed the conversion of John Sutter from right-thinking, taxpaying patriot to citizen of the world, or more precisely, the sea. With a few hours of usable light left, and a strong southwesterly wind, I headed back toward the south shore of Long Island and sailed west along the magnificent white beaches. We passed by East Hampton and Southampton, then turned into the Shinnecock Inlet and sailed past the Shinnecock Reservation, putting in at The Southampton Yacht Club where we anchored for the night. The next morning, Sunday, we took on fresh water, then navigated through the canal into the Great Peconic Bay. For small and medium-size craft, the sailing in Peconic Bay is some of the best on the East Coast, offering the appearance of open seas with the safety of protected water. Also, there is a lot to see in terms of other craft, seaplanes, islands, and spectacular shoreline, so we just explored for the entire day. Edward explored with a pair of binoculars, spotting four topless women. He kept offering the binoculars to me, but I assured him I wasn't interested in such things. Susan and Carolyn, on the other hand, told him to give them the binoculars if he spotted a naked man. What a crew. On Sunday evening, we put in at the old whaling village of Sag Harbor for provisions. Susan, as I mentioned, is not much of a cook, even in her modern kitchen at home, so we don't expect much from the galley. Susan and Edward thought that provisions should consist of a decent meal at a restaurant on Main Street, but Carolyn and I voted for roughing it. Since I am the captain of the Paumanok, we had it my way. You see why I like sailing. So we took a walk through the village, which was quiet on a Sunday evening, and found an open deli where we bought cold beer and sandwiches. We took our provisions back to the ship, which was docked at the Long Wharf at the head of Main Street. As we sat on the aft deck drinking beer and eating baloney sandwiches, Susan said to me, "If we get scurvy on this trip, it will be your fault."

"I take full responsibility for the Paumanok and her crew, madam. I run a tight ship and I will not abide insubordination."

Susan shook a bottle of beer, popped the cap, and sent a stream of suds into my face.

Normally, this sort of horseplay between Susan and me is actually foreplay, but there were children present, so I just joined in the laughter. Ha, ha. But I was horny. Boats make me horny.

We played cards that night, talked, read, and went to bed early. Sailing is exhausting, and I never sleep so well as when I'm on a gently swaying sailboat. We rose at dawn on Monday morning and set sail for home. Out in Gardiners Bay, we sailed around Gardiners Island. The Gardiner family came to the New World about the same time as the Sutters, and the island that was granted to them by Charles I is still in their possession. The present occupant of the island, Robert David Lion Gardiner, has what amounts to the only hereditary title in America, being known as the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor. My father, who knows the gentleman, calls him Bob.

Anyway, the circumnavigation of the big island was a tricky piece of sailing, but the crew was up to it. As we sailed away from the north coast of the island, I couldn't help but reflect on the ancient idea that land is security and sustenance, that land should never be sold or divided. But even if that was true today, it was true only as an ideal, not a practicality. Still, I envied the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor.

We rounded Orient Point and lowered the sails, letting the Paumanok drift as we finally broke out the fishing gear. Susan, Carolyn, and I were going for bluefish, using as bait a tin of herring that we'd brought along for the occasion. Crazy Edward had brought a much bigger rod and reel with a hundred-pound line and was out for shark. He proclaimed, "I'm going to get a great white."

Carolyn smirked. "See that he doesn't get you."

Edward had kept a whole chicken in the refrigerator as bait, and he secured it to his big hook with copper wire. Bubbling with his old enthusiasm, he cast his line in the water.

We pulled in six blues, which we kept in a pail of seawater to be cleaned later by the captain. And indeed, Edward did tie into a shark, specifically a mako, which is prevalent in these waters in July, and I could tell when the mako broke water, and by the bend in the rod, that it weighed about two hundred pounds. Edward shouted with delight. "Got 'im! Got 'im! He's hooked!" The Paumanok has no fighting chair, which is a requisite if you're trying to land something that size, but Edward fought the fish from a kneeling position, his knees jammed against the bulwark. The shark was powerful enough to tow the boat and even to make it list whenever Edward locked the reel. Eventually, Edward reached the end of his line, literally and figuratively, and he was so exhausted he could barely speak. The fish, however, had a lot of fight left in him. I recall a similar incident involving me, my father, and a blue shark. I had refused to let anyone relieve me on the rod and refused to let anyone cut the line and end the uneven battle. The result was that after an hour my arms and hands were paralysed from fatigue, and I lost not only the shark but the expensive rod and reel as well. What I was watching now seemed like deja vu. A sailboat is not the ship you want to go shark hunting in, and there were a few times I thought that Edward was going to go over the side as the shark dived and the boat heeled. Finally, after nearly an hour, I suggested, "Let him go." "No."

"Then let me relieve you awhile."

"No!"

Carolyn and Susan had stopped fishing for blues and were watching Edward silently. Edward, of course, was not going to blow it in front of the women, or in front of me for that matter. I tried to think of a graceful way out for him but couldn't. Actually, it was his problem, not mine.

Carolyn poured a bucket of fresh water over Edward, then wrapped a wet towel around his head and shoulders. Susan held cans of cola to his lips, and Edward drank three of them.

I could see that Edward was not in good shape. His skin was burning red, and his tongue was actually lolling around his mouth. His eyes had a faraway glazed look, and I suspected he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. His arms and legs were wrapped around the pole in such a way that I didn't think the pole could get away from him but would take him with it if the fish gave a long, powerful lunge.

I wished in a way that he would pass out, or that the line would snap, or even that the shark would take him over the side; anything rather than his having to let go.

Carolyn said to him, "Let it go, Edward. Let it go."

He could not speak any longer, so he just shook his head. I don't know what the natural outcome of this would have been, but Susan took matters into her own hands and cut the line with a knife. Edward seemed not to understand what had happened for minute or so, then he sprawled out on the deck and cried.

We had to carry him below, and we put him in a bunk with wet towels. It was an hour before he could move his hands and arms. We set sail for home. Edward was quiet and sullen for some time, then said to everyone, "Thanks for helping out." Carolyn replied, "We should have thrown you to the shark."

"Shark?" I said. "I thought he was fighting the dead chicken." Susan smiled and put her arm around her son. She said, "You're as stubborn and pigheaded as your father."

"Thank you," said Edward.

We sailed into The Seawanhaka Corinthian late Monday afternoon, sunburned and exhausted. A boat is sort of a litmus test for relationships, the close quarters and solitude compelling people into either a warm bond or into mutiny and murder. As we tied the Paumanok up to its berth, the Sutters were smiling at one another; the sea had worked its magic.

But you can't stay at sea forever, and most desert islands lack the facilities for a quick appendectomy. So we tie up our boats, and we tie ourselves to our electronic lifelines, and we lead lives of noisy desperation. I knew that the bond that the Sutters had renewed on the Paumanok, while solid in most respects, had a serious fissure, a fault line if you will, which ran between husband and wife. The children were not holding us together, of course, but they did draw us together, at least while they were around. But that evening, as I sat by myself in my study, I realized that I wanted this summer to end; I wanted Carolyn and Edward back at school so that Susan and I could talk, could connect or disconnect.

On Friday, the four of us drove out to the Hamptons, and I listed our house with the realtors for a quick summer sale. Alas, the summer was already a few weeks old, and most of the Manhattan turkeys had already been plucked. This, combined with a shaky stock market, high mortgage rates, and some nonsense about an income tax increase, was depressing the summer-house market. Nevertheless, I asked for a cool half million, which the realtor wrote down as $499,900. "No," I said, "I told you half a million."

"But -"

"I'm not looking for stupid buyers. List it my way." And he did. Even if I got the half million, I wouldn't see-much profit after I paid off the existing mortgage, the realtor's commission, Melzer, the IRS, and, of course, the, new capital gains. God, how depressing. More depressing still was the fact that I liked the house, and it was the only solid piece of the earth that I owned. So we spent Friday afternoon on our shingled bit of Americana, packing a few personal things that we didn't want around when the realtors brought customers through. Everyone was sort of quiet, and I suppose the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another reality, in case it crossed your mind, was that Susan could indeed come up with the money to pay off our tax debt. I don't know exactly how much the woman has (I'm only her husband and a tax lawyer), but I estimate about six hundred thousand dollars, which spins off perhaps fifty thousand a year for pin money. She doesn't spend that much, and probably it is ploughed back into the stocks, bonds, and whatever. But asking an old-money heiress to touch her principal is like asking a nun for sex. Also, I don't think Susan is as fond of the Hamptons or our house there as I am. There are some practical reasons why this is so, but I think there is a psychological thing going on there that she is barely aware of, which has to do with whose home turf is whose. Anyway, we took care of the house, shopped for groceries, then had a drink on the porch. Edward said, "If you don't sell it by the time I get back from Florida, can we come out for a few weeks?" I replied, "If I can spare the time."

Carolyn said, "Dad, you take every August off."

"Yes, because taxes, though as inevitable as death, can be put off for a month. This year, however, I have a client with more serious problems than taxes, and I have to stay flexible. But we'll see."

They both groaned, because 'we'll see' is father talk for 'no'. I said, "No, really. We will see what happens." I added, "You can both come out on your own if we haven't sold the place. Perhaps your mother would like to join you." Susan said, "We'll see."

And that seemed to be the phrase of the moment, because the future was beginning to look tentative, subject to change without notice.

At seven P.M. the Sutter clan dutifully made the short trip to Southampton to visit Grandma and Grandpa Sutter, who were so overcome with joy at our arrival that they shook our hands. They own one of those glass and cedar contemporaries with every convenience known to late-twentieth-century American civilization. The house is actually on a computer/timer sort of thing, with all types of sensors that draw blinds open and shut depending on the sun, water lawns if they need watering, shut off lights if no one is in the room for more than five minutes, and so on. But as there are no uric acid sensors, you do actually have to flush your own toilet.

My mother announced that she would rather go directly to the restaurant instead of sitting and having a drink there, so we turned around and left in separate cars, meeting in the village of Southampton on Job's Lane. This is an interesting street, one of the oldest in America, going back to the 1640s, though none of the buildings actually go back that far. But speaking of Job, of all the miseries that God visited on that poor man, none – I repeat, none – could have been as bad as having to go to dinner with Joseph and Harriet Sutter. Well, perhaps I exaggerate. But I do say this: There are times when I would rather eat worms in a root cellar than go to a restaurant with my parents. Anyway, we had reservations at a trendy new place called Buddy's Hole. In the Hamptons, the more modest the name, like Sammy's Pizza or Billy's Burgers, and/or the more loathsome the name, like Buddy's Hole, the more pretentious the place will be. My parents, always avant-garde, seek out these dreadful places, filled with the dregs of the American literary world (which is barely distinguishable from the cream), and has-been actors, never-been artists, and a smattering of Euro-trash who probably swam here to sponge off the millionaires. I myself, oddly enough, prefer the old-guard places of the Hamptons, dark, civilized sort of establishments with no hanging asparagus plants, and a menu that could be described as ancienne cuisine, heavy on the fatty Long Island duck and light on the kiwi fruit.

Be that as it may, we were shown to a nice table for two with six chairs around it and no tablecloth. On the floor under the table was a cat, which is supposed to be cutesy, but I know they rent them and rotate them like they do with the hanging plants. I've seen the same fat tiger cat in four different restaurants. I have little tolerance for these hip places, as you may have gathered, which may explain what happened later.

Well, to continue my complaining, the noise in the place sounded like the soundtrack in the Poseidon Adventure when the boat flips over, and the air-conditioning engineers hadn't taken into account that people might show up. We ordered drinks from an irrepressibly friendly little college girl who didn't seem to realize we were not nice people.

My father, as patriarch, held up his glass as if to propose a toast, and we all did the same. But as it turned out, he was only checking for water spots, and having found some, he called the waitress over and reprimanded her. She was so bubbly and fascinated by the water spots that I began to think she was on a controlled substance.

New drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. "Here's to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health."

We touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov's dogs, knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, "I'm going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy."

Anyway, we chatted awhile, though my parents rarely make small talk. They don't care much about family news, don't want to hear about Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the law firm, and show about as much interest in their grandchildren as they do in their own children; i.e., zip.

Nevertheless, I tried. "Have you heard from Emily recently?" I inquired. I hadn't seen my sister since Easter, but she had written to me in May. | My father replied, "She wrote."

"How recently?"

"Last month."

"What did she write?"

My mother picked up the ball. "Everything is fine."

Susan said, "Carolyn is going to Cuba next week."

My mother seemed genuinely interested in this. "Good for you, Carolyn. The government has no right to stop you."

Carolyn replied, "We actually have to fly to Mexico first. You can't get there from here."

"How awful."

Edward said, "I'm going to Florida."

My mother looked at him. "How nice."

My father added, "Have a good time."

We were really rolling now, so I tried this: "Edward would like to spend some time out here in late August. If you're going away, he can house-sit for you." My father informed me, "If we go away, we have the day maid house-sit." Neither of them asked why Edward couldn't stay at our house in East Hampton, so I volunteered, "We're selling our house."

"The market is soft," said my father.

"We're selling it because I have a tax problem."

He replied that he was sorry to hear that, but I knew he must be wondering how a tax expert could have been so stupid. So I briefly explained the cause of the problem, thinking perhaps the old fox might have an idea or two. He listened and said, "I seem to recall telling you that would come back to haunt you." Good ol' Pop.

Carolyn said, "Do you know who we have living next door to us?"

My father replied, "Yes, we heard at Easter."

I said, "We have become somewhat friendly with them."

My mother looked up from her menu. "He makes the most fantastic pesto sauce."

"How do you know?"

"I've had it, John."

"You've eaten at the Bellarosas'?"

"No. Where is that?"

Obviously I was not paying attention.

Mother went on, "He gets the basil from a little farm in North Sea. He picks it every day at seven P.M."

"Who?"

"Buddy Bear. The owner. He's a Shinnecock, but he cooks marvellous Italian."

"The owner is an Indian?"

"A Native American, John. A Shinnecock. And ten percent of the bill goes directly to the reservation. He's a darling man. We'll try to meet him later." I ordered another double gin and tonic.

And so we passed the time, my parents not inquiring after Susan's parents or any of her family. They also did not ask about anyone in the Locust Valley or Manhattan office, or about the Allards, or in fact about anyone. And while they were at it, they made a special point of not asking Carolyn or Edward about school. There are certain types of persons, as I've discovered, who have a great love of humanity, like my parents, but don't particularly like people. But my mother did like Buddy Bear. "You absolutely must meet him," she insisted.

"Okay. Where is he?" I replied graciously.

"He's usually here on Fridays."

Edward said, "Maybe he's at a powwow."

My mother gave him a very cool look, then said to my father, "We must get his mushrooms." She explained to Susan and me, "He picks his own mushrooms. He knows where to go for them, but he absolutely refuses to let anyone in on his secret." I was fairly certain that Buddy Bear went to the wholesale produce market like any sane restaurateur, but Mr Bear was putting out a line of bullshit to the white turkeys who were gobbling it up. My God, I almost felt I would rather have been dining with Frank Bellarosa.

My mother seemed agitated that the owner had not put in an appearance, so she inquired of our waitress as to his whereabouts. The waitress replied, "Oh, like he's really busy, you know? He's like, cooking? You know? Do you want to talk to him or something?"

"When he has a moment," my mother replied.

I mean, who gives a shit? You know?

At my mother's suggestion, or insistence, I had ordered some angel-hair pasta concoction that combined three ingredients of Mr Bear's supposed foraging: the basil, the mushrooms, and some god-awful Indian sorrel that tasted like mouldy grass clippings.

There wasn't much said during dinner, but after the plates were cleared, my mother said to my father, "We're going to have the Indian pudding." She turned to us. "Buddy makes an authentic Indian pudding. You must try it." So we had six authentic Indian – or should I say Native American – puddings, which I swear to God came out of a can. But I had mine with a tumbler of brandy, so who cares?

The check came and my father paid it, as was his custom. I was anxious to leave, but as luck would have it, the great Indian was now making the rounds of his tables, and we sat until our turn came.

To fill the silence, I said to my father, "Edward tied into a mako last week.

About two hundred pounds, I'd say."

My father replied to me, not to Edward, "Someone caught a fifteen-foot white out of Montauk two weeks ago."

My mother added, "I don't mind when they're eaten, but to hunt them just for sport is disgraceful."

"I agree," I said. "You must eat what you catch, unless it's absolutely awful. A mako is very good. Edward fought him for an hour."

"And," my mother added, "I don't like it when they're injured and get away. That is inhumane. You must make every effort to capture him and put him out of his misery."

"Then eat him," I reminded her.

"Yes, eat him. Buddy serves shark here when he gets it." I glanced at Edward, then Susan and Carolyn. I took a deep breath and said to my father, "Do you remember that time, Dad, when I hooked that blue…?" "Yes?"

"Never mind."

Mr Bear finally got to us. He was rather fat and, in fact, didn't look like an Indian at all except for his long black hair. If anything, he was a white man with some Indian and perhaps black blood and, more importantly, a keen sense of self-promotion. My mother took his left hand as he stood beside our table, leaving his right hand free to shake all around. "So," said Buddy Bear, "you like everything?"

Mother gushed forth a stream of praise for one of the most horrible meals I've ever eaten.

We made stupid restaurant chatter for a minute or two, mother still holding Mr Bear's paw, but alas, the last of the Shinnecocks had to move on, but not before my mother said to him playfully, "I'm going to follow you one of these mornings and see where you pick your mushrooms."

He smiled enigmatically.

I asked him, "Do you have sorrel every day, or only after you mow your lawn?" He smiled again, but not so enigmatically. The smile, in fact, looked like "Fuck you."

Edward tried to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably. On that note, we left Buddy's Hole for the cool evening breezes of Southampton. On the sidewalk of Job's Lane, my mother said, "We would invite you all back to the house, but we have a long day tomorrow."

I addressed my parents. "We have almost nothing in common and never did, so I would like to end these meaningless dinners if it's all the same to you." My mother snapped, "What a hateful thing to say," but my father actually looked saddened and mumbled, "All right."

In the Bronco on the way back to East Hampton, Susan asked me, "Will you regret that?"

"No."

Carolyn spoke up from the backseat, "Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

Edward said, "I kinda feel sorry for them."

Edward does not love all of humanity, but he likes people, and he feels sorry for everyone. Carolyn feels sorry for no one, Susan doesn't know what sorrow is, and I… well, sometimes I feel sorry for myself. But I'm working on that. Actually, telling people what you think of them is not difficult, because they already know it and are probably surprised you haven't said it sooner. I knew, too, that breaking off my relationship with my parents was good training for ending other relationships. I think Susan, who is no fool, knew this, too, because she said to me, "Judy Remsen told me that you told Lester to go F himself. Is anyone else on your list?"

Quick wit that I am, I pulled a gasoline receipt from my pocket and pretended to study it as I drove. "Let's see here… nine more. I'll call your parents tomorrow, so that will leave only seven…" She didn't reply, because there were children present.

We drove back to Stanhope Hall on Monday, and for the next few days our house was lively as the children's friends came and went. I actually like a house full of teenagers on school break, and in short doses. At Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving especially, the presence of kids in the house lends something extra to the holiday mood and reminds me, I suppose, of my own homecomings from school.

The children of the old rich and privileged are, if nothing else, polite. They are acculturated early and know how to make conversations with adults. They'd rather not, of course, but they're learning early how to do things they don't want to do. They will be successful and unhappy adults. Carolyn and Edward had booked flights on separate days, naturally, so that meant two trips to Kennedy Airport at inconvenient hours. It's times like those when I miss chauffeurs. We could have packed them off in hired limos, I suppose, but after telling my own parents to buzz off, I was feeling a wee bit… something. After my children left, the house was quiet, and it rained for a few days straight. I went to the Locust Valley office to fill up the days, but didn't accomplish much except to find the file I needed on the East Hampton house. I spent a day figuring out my expenses on the house, so that when it was sold, I could calculate my profit accurately, and thus figure out my capital gains. Of course, as before, I could reinvest the so-called profit in another house and defer the tax, but I knew that I would not be buying another house in the near future; perhaps never. This realization, which was forced on me by the mundane act of having to crunch numbers, sort of hit me hard. It wasn't simply a matter of money that made me realize there would be no new house in my future; I might be doing very well in two years. It was more, I think, a decision on my part to stop making long-range plans. Modern life was geared toward a reasonably predictable future; thirty-year mortgages, seven-year certificates of deposit, hog belly futures, and retirement plans. But recent events convinced me that I can neither predict nor plan for the future, so screw the future. When I got there, I'd know what to do; I always know what to do in foreign countries. Why not the future?

The past was another story. You couldn't change it, but you could break away from it and leave it and the people in it behind. My objective, I suppose, was to float in a never-ending present, like the captain of the Paumanok, dealing with the moment's realities, aware but not concerned about where I've been and charting a general course forward, subject to quick changes depending on winds, tides, and whatever I could see on the immediate horizon. As I was getting ready to leave the office, my phone rang and my secretary, Anne, came into my office instead of buzzing me. "Mr Sutter, I know you said no calls, but it is your father."

I sat there a moment, and for no particular reason, I saw us on that boat again, he and I, nearly forty years ago, in the harbour at night, and saw this sort of close-up of my hand in his, but then my hand slipped out of his hand, and I reached for him again, but he had moved away and was talking to someone, perhaps my mother.

"Mr Sutter?"

I said to her, "Tell him I do not wish to speak to him." She seemed not at all surprised, but simply nodded and left. I watched the green light on my phone, and in a few minutes it was gone.

From the office, I went directly to my boat and sat in the cabin, listening to the rain. It was not a night you would choose to go out into, but if you had to go out, you could, and if you had been caught by surprise in the wind and rain, you could ride it through. There were other storms that presented more of a challenge, and some that were clear and imminent dangers. Some weather was just plain death.

There were obviously certain elemental lessons that you learned from the sea, most of them having to do with survival. But we tend to forget the most elemental lessons, or don't know when they apply. This is how we, as sailors, get ourselves into trouble.

We can be captains of our fate, I thought, but not masters of it. Or as an old sailing instructor told me when I was a boy, "God send you the weather, kid. What you do with it or what it does to you depends on how good a sailor you are."

That about summed it up.

CHAPTER 22

Friday morning dawned bright and clear. Susan was up and out riding before I was even dressed.

She had finished the painting next door, and we were to have an unveiling at the Bellarosas' as soon as Anna found the right place for the painting, and Susan found an appropriate frame. I couldn't wait.

I was having my third cup of coffee, trying to decide what to do with the day, when the phone rang. I answered it in the kitchen, and it was Frank Bellarosa. "Whaddaya up to?" he asked.

"Seven."

"What?"

"I'm up to seven. What are you up to?"

"Hey, I gotta ask you something. Where's the beach around here?"

"There are a hundred miles of beaches around here. Which one did you want?"

"There's that place at the end of the road here. The sign says no trespassing.

That mean me?"

"That's Fox Point. It's private property, but everyone on Grace Lane uses the beach. No one lives there anymore, but we have a covenant with the owners." "A what?"

"A deal. You can use the beach."

"Good, 'cause I was down there the other day. I didn't want to be trespassing." "No, you don't want to do that." Was this guy kidding or what? I added, "It's a misdemeanour."

"Yeah. We got a thing in the old neighbourhoods, you know? You don't shit where you live, you don't spit on the sidewalk. You go to Little Italy, for instance, you behave."

"Except for the restaurant rubouts."

"That's different. Hey, take a walk with me down there."

"Little Italy?"

"No. Fox Place."

"Fox Point."

"Yeah. I'll meet you at my fence."

"Gatehouse?"

"Yeah. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Show me this place." I assumed he wanted to discuss something and didn't want to do it on the telephone. In our few phone conversations, there was never anything said that would even suggest that I might be his attorney. I think he wanted to spring this on Ferragamo and the New York press as a little surprise at some point. "Okay?" he asked.

"Okay."

I hung up, finished my coffee, put on jeans and Docksides, and made sure twenty minutes passed before I began the ten-minute walk to Alhambra's gates. But was the son of a bitch pacing impatiently for me? No. I went to the gatehouse and banged on the door. Anthony Gorilla opened up. "Yeah?" I could see directly into the small living room, not unlike the Allards' little place, the main difference being that sitting around the room was another gorilla whom I supposed was Vinnie and two incredibly sluttish-looking women who might be Lee and Delia. The two sluts and the gorilla seemed to be smirking at me, or perhaps it was my imagination.

Anthony repeated his greeting. "Yeah?"

I turned my attention back to Anthony and said, "What the hell do you think I'm here for? If I'm expected, you say, 'Good morning, Mr Sutter. Mr Bellarosa is expecting you.' You do not say 'yeah?' Capisce?"

Before Anthony could make his apologies or do something else, don Bellarosa himself appeared at the door and said something to Anthony in Italian, then stepped outside and led me away by the arm.

Bellarosa was wearing his standard uniform of blazer, turtleneck, and slacks. The colours this time were brown, white, and beige, respectively. I saw, too, as we walked, that he had acquired a pair of good Docksides, and on his left wrist was a black Porsche watch, very sporty at about two thousand bucks. The man was almost getting it, but I didn't know how to bring up the subject of his nylon stretch socks.

As we walked up Grace Lane, toward Fox Point, Bellarosa said, "That's not a man you want to piss off."

"That's a man who had better not piss me off again."

"Yeah?"

"Listen to me. If you invite me to your property, I want your flunkies to treat me with respect."

He laughed. "Yeah? You into the respect thing now? You Italian, or what?" I stopped walking. "Mr Bellarosa, you tell your goons, including your imbecile driver, Lenny, and the half-wits and sluts in that gatehouse, and anyone else you have working for you, that don Bellarosa respects Mr John Sutter." He looked at me for about half a minute, then nodded. "Okay. But you don't keep me waiting again. Okay?"

"I'll do my best."

We continued our walk up Grace Lane, and I wondered how many people saw us from their ivory towers. Bellarosa said, "Hey, your kid came over the other day. He tell you?"

"Yes. He said you showed him around the estate. That was very good of you."

"No problem. Nice kid. We had a nice talk. Smart like his old man. Right? Up-front like his old man, too. Asked me where I got all the money to build up the estate."

"I certainly didn't teach him to ask questions like that. I hope you told him it was none of his business."

"Nah. I told him I worked hard and did smart things." I made a mental note to talk to Edward about the wages of sin and about crime doesn't pay. Frank Bellarosa's advice to his children was probably less complex and summed up in three words: Don't get caught.

We reached the end of Grace Lane, which is a wide turnaround in the centre of which rises a jagged rock about eight feet high. There is a legend that says that Captain Kidd, who is known to have buried his treasure on Long Island's North Shore, used this rock as the starting point for his treasure map. I mentioned this to Bellarosa and he asked, "Is that why this place is called the Gold Coast?"

"No, Frank. That's because it's wealthy."

"Oh, yeah. Anybody find the treasure?"

"No, but I'll sell you the map."

"Yeah? I'll give you my deed to the Brooklyn Bridge for it."

I think my wit was rubbing off on him.

We walked up to the entrance to Fox Point, whose gatehouse was a miniature castle. The entire front wall of the estate was obscured by overgrown trees and bushes, and none of the estate grounds were visible from Grace Lane. I produced a key and opened the padlock on the wrought-iron gates, asking Bellarosa, "How did you get in here?"

"It was opened when I got here. Some people were on the beach. Do I get one of those keys?"

"I suppose you do. I'll have one made for you." Normally, anyone who opens the padlock does not bother to lock it behind them, which was how Bellarosa had gotten in. But there was something about this man that made me rethink every simple and mundane action of my life. I had visions of his goons following us, or somebody else's goons following us, or even Mancuso showing up. In truth, you could scale the wall easily enough, but nevertheless, after we passed through the gates, I closed them again, reached through the bars and snapped the padlock shut. I said to Bellarosa, "Are you armed?"

"Does the Pope wear a cross?"

"I imagine he does." We began walking down the old drive, which had once been paved with tons of crushed seashells, but over the years, dirt, grass, and weeds have nearly obliterated them. The trees that lined the drive, mostly mimosa and tulip trees, were so overgrown that they formed a tunnel not six feet wide and barely high enough to walk through without ducking.

The drive curved and sloped down toward the shoreline, and I could see daylight at the end of the trees. We broke out into a delightful stretch of waterfront that ran about a mile along the Sound from Fox Point on the east to a small, nameless sand spit on the west. The thick vegetation ended where we were standing, and on the lower ground was a thin strip of windblown trees, then bulrushes and high grasses, and finally the rocky beach itself. Bellarosa said, "This is a very nice place."

"Thank you," I said, leaving him with the impression I had something to do with it.

We continued downhill along the drive, which was lined now with only an occasional salt-stunted pine or cedar. The drive led us to the ruin of the great house of Fox Point. The house, built in the early 1920s, was unusual for its day, a sort of contemporary structure of glass and mahogany with flat roofs, open decks, and pipe railings, resembling, perhaps, a luxury liner, and nearly as large. The house had been gutted by fire about twenty years ago, but no one had actually lived in it since the 1950s. Sand dunes had drifted in and around the long rambling ruin, and I was always struck by the thought that it looked like the collapsed skeleton of some fantastic sea creature that had washed ashore and died. But I do remember seeing the house before it burned, though only from a long distance when I was boating on the Sound. I had often thought I would like to live in it and watch the sea from its high decks. Bellarosa studied the ruins for a while, then we walked on toward the beach. Fox Point had been, even by Gold Coast standards, a fabulous estate. But over the years the waterside terraces, the bathhouses, boathouses, and piers have been destroyed by storms and erosion. Only two intact structures now remained on the entire estate: the gazebo and the pleasure palace. The gazebo sat precariously on an eroded shelf of grassland, ready to float away in the next nor'easter. Bellarosa pointed to the gazebo and said, "I don't have one of those."

"Take that one before the sea does."

He studied the octagonal structure from a distance. "I can take it?"

"No one cares. Except the Gazebo Society, and they're all nuts."

"Oh, yeah. Your wife paints those things."

"No, she has lunch in them."

"Right. I'll have Dominic look at it."

I gazed out over the Sound. It was a bright blue day, and the water sparkled, and coloured sails slid back and forth on the horizon, and in the distance the Connecticut coast was clear. It was a nice day to be alive, so far. Bellarosa turned away from the gazebo and looked farther down the shore toward a building that sat well back from the beach on a piece of solid land protected by a stone bulkhead. He pointed. "What's that? I saw that the other day." "That's the pleasure palace."

"You mean like for fun?"

"Yes. For fun." In fact, the wealthiest and most hedonistic of the Gold Coast residents constructed these huge pleasure palaces, away from their mansions, the sole purpose of which was fun. Fox Point's pleasure palace was constructed of steel and masonry, and during the Second World War the Coast Guard found the building convenient for storing ammunition. But as solid as it looks, or may have looked to German U-boats, from the air you can see that most of the roof is made of blue glass. Actually, on occasions that I've flown over the Gold Coast in a small plane, I could spot this and other surviving pleasure palaces because they all have these shimmering blue roofs. Bellarosa asked, "What kind of fun?" "Sex, gambling, drinking, tennis. You name it."

"Show me it."

"All right." We walked the hundred yards to the huge structure, and I led him inside through a broken glass door.

The athletic wings of the pleasure palace resembled a modern health club, but there were touches of art nouveau elegance in the mosaic tile floors and iron-filigreed windows. Considering that it hadn't been used since about 1929, it wasn't in bad shape.

In one wing of the building, there was a regulation-size clay tennis court covered by a thirty-foot-high blue-glass roof. The roof leaked, and the clay had crumbled long ago, and it sprouted some sort of odd plant life that apparently liked clay and blue light. There was no net on the court, so Bellarosa, who had shown some confusion in the past regarding interior design, asked me, "What's this place?"

"The drawing room."

"No shit?"

We walked through the larger adjoining wing, which was a full gymnasium, into the next section of the building, which held an Olympic-size swimming pool, also covered with blue glass. Adjacent to the gym and pool were steam rooms, showers, rubdown rooms, and a solarium. The west wing, more luxurious, contained overnight guest accommodations, including a kitchen and servants' quarters. Bellarosa said very little as I gave him the tour, but at one point he remarked, "These people lived like Roman emperors."

"They gave it their best shot."

We found the east wing, which was a cavernous ballroom where Susan and I had once gone to a Roaring Twenties party. "Madonn'!" said Frank. "Yes," I agreed. I remembered that there was a cocktail lounge near the ballroom, actually a speakeasy, as this place was built during Prohibition, but I couldn't find it. Walking through this building under the ghostly blue-glass roofs, even I, who have lived among Gold Coast ruins all my life, was awed by the size and opulence of this pleasure palace. We had retraced our steps and were back at the mosaic pool now. I said to Bellarosa, "We have to hold a Roman orgy here. You bring the beer."

He laughed. "Yeah. Jesus, these people must've had lots of friends."

"People with lots of money have lots of friends."

"Hey, is this place for sale?"

I knew that was coming. This was the kind of guy who had to know the price of everything and wanted to buy everything he couldn't steal. I replied, "Yes, it is. Are you going to buy all of Grace Lane?"

He laughed again. "I like my privacy. I like land."

"Go to Kansas. This is a million dollars an acre on the water."

"Jesus. Who the hell can afford that?"

Well, Mafia dons. I said, "The Iranians."

"Who?"

"The Iranians are negotiating with the family who own this estate. People named Morrison who live in Paris now. They are filthy rich, but don't want to restore this place. Actually, they're not even American citizens anymore. They are expatriates."

He mulled that over, figuring as many angles as he could, I'm sure, from that skimpy information. We found the broken door and walked out into the sunlight. Bellarosa asked, "What the hell do Iranians want with this place?" "Well, there are a lot of rich Iranian immigrants here on Long Island now, and they want to buy this estate and convert the pleasure palace into a mosque. Maybe the blue roof turned them on."

"A mosque? Like an Arab church?"

"A Muslim mosque. The Iranians are Muslims, but not Arabs."

"Ah, they're all sand niggers."

Why do I bother to explain things to this man?

He jabbed his finger toward me. "You people gonna allow that?"

"Whom do you mean by 'you people'?"

"You know who I mean. You people. You gonna allow that?" "I refer you to the First Amendment to the Constitution – written, incidentally, by my people – as it regards freedom of religion."

"Yeah, but Jesus Christ, did you ever hear those people pray? We had a bunch of Arabs used to meet in a storefront near where I lived. This one clown used to get on the roof every night and wail like a hyena. Jesus, am I gonna have that down the street again?"

"It's a possibility." We were walking, and I turned toward the gazebo. I could see that my companion was unhappy. He grumbled, "The real estate lady never told me about this."

"She didn't tell me about you, either."

He thought about that a moment, trying to determine, I suppose, if that was an ethnic slur, a personal insult, or a reference to the Mafia thing. He grumbled again, "Fucking Iranians…" It was really time for me to give this man a lesson in civics, to remind him what America stood for, and to let him know I didn't like racial epithets. But on further consideration, I realized that would be like trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig. So I said, "You buy it." He nodded. "How much? For the whole place?"

"Well, it's not nearly as much land as Stanhope or Alhambra, but it's waterfront, so I'd say about ten or twelve million for the acreage." "That's a big number."

"It gets bigger. If you get into a bidding war with the Iranians, they'll run you up to fifteen or more."

"I don't bid against other people. You just put me in touch with the people I got to talk to. The owners."

"And you'll make them your best offer, and show them that it's their best offer."

He glanced at me and smiled. "You're learning, Counsellor."

"What would you do with this place?"

"I don't know. Take a swim. I'd let everybody keep using the beach, too. The fucking Arabs wouldn't do that because they got this thing about seeing a little skin. You know? They swim with their fucking sheets on." "I never thought about that." I wondered if this guy could actually buy Stanhope Hall and Fox Point, and still keep Alhambra. Or was he just blowing smoke? Also, it struck me that he had a lot of long-range plans for a man who was facing indictment for murder and who had an impressive list of enemies who wanted him dead. He had balls, I'll give him that.

We walked up the path to the gazebo and entered the big octagonal structure. It was made of wood, but all the paint on the sea side had been weathered off. It was fairly clean inside, probably tidied up by the weird ladies of the Gazebo Society before their luncheon. Someone should teach them how to paint. Bellarosa examined the gazebo. "You got one of these on your place. Yeah, I like it. Nice place to sit and talk. I'll get Dominic here next week." He sat on the bench that ran around the inside of the gazebo. "So, sit, and we'll talk." "I'll stand, you talk, I'll listen."

He produced a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Want one? Real Cuban."

"No, thanks."

He unwrapped his cigar and lit it with a gold lighter. He said, "I asked your kid to ask your daughter to bring me back a box of Monte Cristos." "I would appreciate it if you didn't involve my family in smuggling."

"Hey, if she gets caught, I'll take care of it."

"I'm an attorney. I'll take care of it."

"What's she doing in Cuba?"

"How did you know she was going to Cuba?"

"Your kid told me. He's going to Florida. I gave him some names in Cocoa Beach."

"What sort of names?"

"Names. Friends. People who will take care of him and his friends if they use my name."

"Frank -"

"Hey, what are friends for? But I got no friends in Cuba. Why'd your daughter go to Cuba?"

"To work for world peace."

"Yeah? That's nice. How's it pay? Maybe I'll meet her next time she's in town."

"Maybe. You can pick up your cigars."

"Yeah. Hey, how's that income tax thing coming?"

"Melzer seems to have a handle on it. Thanks."

"No problem. So, no criminal charges, right?"

"That's what he said."

"Good, good. Wouldn't want my lawyer in jail. What's Melzer banging you for?"

"Twenty up front and half of what he saves me."

"That's not bad. If you need some quick cash, you let me know."

"What's the vig?"

He smiled as he drew on his cigar. "For you, prime plus three, same as the fucking bank."

"Thank you, but I've got the funds."

"Your kid said you were selling your summer house to pay taxes."

I didn't reply. It was inconceivable to me that Edward would say that. Bellarosa added, "You don't sell real estate in this market. You buy in this market."

"Thank you." I put my foot on the bench and looked out to sea. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"Oh, yeah. This grand jury thing. They convened last Monday."

"I read that."

"Yeah. Fucking Ferragamo likes to talk to the press. Anyway, they'll indict me for murder in two, three weeks."

"Maybe they won't."

He thought that was funny. "Yeah. Maybe the Pope is Jewish."

"But he wears a cross."

"Anyway, I don't know if you know how these things work. Okay, the U.S. Attorney gets his indictment from the grand jury. It comes down sealed, you know, and it's not going to be made public until the bust is made. So the U.S. Attorney takes his indictment to a federal judge, along with his arrest warrant, which he wants signed. Now this will usually go down on a Monday, you know, so they get the FBI guys out early on Tuesday morning, and they come for you, you know, they knock on your door about six, seven o'clock. Understand?" "No. I do tax work."

"Well, they come for you early so they usually find you home, you know, with your pants down, like in Russia. Capisce?"

"Why Tuesday?"

"Well, Tuesday is a good day for the news. You know? Monday is bad, Friday is bad, and forget the weekend. You think fucking Ferragamo is stupid?" I almost laughed. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. This is serious stuff, Counsellor."

"Arrests for murder aren't made to coincide with the news." Now it was his turn to laugh. Haw, haw, haw. He added, "Grow up" That pissed me off a little, but I let it slide, because this was interesting. I said, "But they could arrest you Wednesday or Thursday. Those are hot news days."

"Oh, yeah. They could. But they like Tuesday for the big fish. This way they can make the Wednesday papers, too, and maybe a little Thursday action. What if they came for you on Thursday and you weren't home, and they got you Friday? They'd be fucked, news wise."

"Okay. So they arrest you on a Tuesday. What's the point?" "Okay. So they pick you up, they take you down to Federal Plaza, the FBI office, you know, and they jerk you around there awhile, give everybody a good look at you, then they get you over to Foley Square, the federal court, right? And the FBI guys bring you in with cuffs about nine, ten o'clock, and by this time Ferragamo's got half the fucking newspeople in the world there, and everybody's shoving microphones in your face, and the cameras are rolling. Then you get printed and booked, blah, blah, blah, and at about that time is when they let you call your attorney." He looked at me. "Understand?" "What if your attorney is in, say, Cuba?"

"He ain't gonna be. In fact, I don't have to call him. Because he's coming over to my place for coffee about five in the morning for the next few Tuesdays." "I see."

"Yeah. So when the FBI comes, then my attorney is right there to see that everything is done right, that the FBI guys behave. And my attorney gets in my car with Lenny and follows me to Federal Plaza, then to Foley Square. My attorney is not in Cuba, or no place except with his client. Capisce?" I nodded. "Also, my attorney has a briefcase, and in that briefcase is cash and property deeds, and other shit that he needs to post bail for his client. My attorney will be given about four or five million dollars to post." "You're not going to get out on bail on a federal murder charge, Frank, not for any amount of money."

"Wrong. Listen carefully. My attorney is going to convince the judge that Frank Bellarosa is a responsible man, a man who has strong ties to the community, a man who has sixteen legitimate businesses to look after, a man who has a house, a wife, and kids. My attorney will tell the judge that his client has never been convicted of a violent crime, and that he knew the FBI was coming for him and was waiting for them, and came along peacefully. My attorney was a witness to that. My attorney will tell the judge that he knows Mr Bellarosa personally, as a friend, and that he knows Mrs Bellarosa, and in fact my attorney lives next door to Mr and Mrs Bellarosa, and my attorney is making a personal guarantee that Mr Bellarosa will not flee the jurisdiction. Understand?" Indeed I did.

"Okay. So now the judge, who does not like to grant any bail for murder, first degree, now he has to consider all this shit very seriously. By now, Ferragamo has been tipped by the FBI that Bellarosa knew he was going to get arrested that morning, and that Bellarosa has the cash on hand for bail, and that Bellarosa has a very high-quality attorney. So Ferragamo gets his ass into the courtroom personally and starts putting the pressure on the judge. Your Honour, this is a very serious charge, blah, blah, blah. Your Honour, this is a dangerous man; a murderer, blah, blah. But my attorney goes balls to balls with the U.S. Attorney and talks about bail not being unreasonably denied, blah, blah, and the charge is bullshit anyway, and we've got five million in the bag here, and I gave you my personal guarantee, Your Honour. John Sutter, of Wall Street, is putting his balls right on the table, Your Honour. Right? Now Ferragamo didn't expect this shit, and he's the one who's caught with his pants down. He's jumping through his ass to see that Frank Bellarosa doesn't walk. He's got a big hard-on about seeing me in jail with the melanzane. And that night he's gonna be home with his wife and friends having dinner, watching the fucking news while I'm in the slammer with a cork up my ass trying to keep the faggots out of my back door. You understand what I'm saying?"

Frank had a way with words. I replied, "I do."

"Yeah. And you understand that this is not going to happen, Counsellor. You are not going to let it happen."

"I thought you told me that Ferragamo wants you on the street after your indictment. So that your friends or enemies could kill you before your trial." "Yeah. You remembered that? So here's the thing. Ferragamo knows if he gets me in jail, we are going to appeal the bail ruling. Right? But this takes a few weeks. And the next time we come up in front of the judge, Ferragamo has told the judge on the sly that bail is okay with him. He winks at the judge and whispers in his ear. The FBI wants to follow Bellarosa. Right? This is all bullshit. The FBI has been following me for twenty fucking years and they ain't seen shit yet. So the judge winks back, and I'm sprung. But I've been in jail two, three weeks by that time. Follow? So Ferragamo puts the word out that I sang and sang in the slammer. That I'm ready to give up all kinds of people for a reduced charge. So now I'm dead meat. But listen, Counsellor, if I can walk out of that courthouse on the same day I walk in, then I got a chance to keep things under control. You understand?"

"Yes." I understood perfectly well now why it was me and not Jack Weinstein who was going to represent Mr Frank Bellarosa. It was John Whitman Sutter, great-great-great-nephew of Walt, son of Joseph Sutter the Wall Street legend, husband of Susan (one of New York's Four Hundred) Stanhope, partner in Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, member of The Creek and Seawanhaka Corinthian, not to mention a High Episcopalian, a Yale graduate, Harvard Law, and a friend of Roosevelts, Astors, and Vanderbilts, and, incidentally, a friend and next-door neighbour to the accused – that very same John Sutter was going to guarantee personally in open court that his client, Mr Frank Bellarosa, was not going to skip bail. And that judge would listen, and so would every reporter in that court, and it would make every newspaper and every radio and TV news show in the tristate area, probably the country. The bastard was brilliant. He'd figured this out… when? The day I ran into him at Hicks' Nursery? That far back? Mr Sutter? John Sutter, right?

But of course, it had to be even before then. He had known who I was, that I was a lawyer, and that I was his next-door neighbour when he ran into me by accident or design. He had already seen in his mind this whole scenario that he had just laid out before me and had figured out how to survive before his enemies even made their first move. And what was even more impressive was that he had been reasonably sure that I was in his hip pocket even after I'd told him to buzz off a few times. It was no accident that this man was still alive and free after thirty years. His enemies – state and federal law enforcement agencies, rival Mafia bosses, Colombians, and other opportunists – were not lazy or incompetent. They simply were not up to the challenge of getting rid of Frank Bellarosa. I mean, there was a time when I wanted to see him in jail… maybe even dead. But I had mixed feelings about that now, the way I do when a shark is hooked. You hate the shark, you fear the shark, but after about two hours, you respect the shark.

I heard his voice interrupting my thoughts. "So you understand?"

I nodded.

He went on. "We should be out of the courthouse before they break for lunch. I don't want lunch in the holding cell. Then you and me go have a nice lunch someplace. Maybe Gaffe Roma. That's near the court. I gotta make you try fried squid. So around that time, Alphonse Ferragamo is holding one of his fucking press conferences. He's skipping lunch so he can make the late editions and the five-o'clock news. Right? He's announcing my indictment, my arrest, and all that shit. He wants to announce that I'm in jail, too, but that ain't gonna happen, so he has to eat a little shit from the press people and from his boss in Washington. But basically, he's a happy man, and he's going to fuck his girlfriend that afternoon, then go home and have a party. So we'll hang around town awhile, get a hotel room, watch the news, get some newspapers, have a few friends over. You can make a few statements to the press, too, but not too much. And remind me to call my wife. Oh, yeah, it would be nice if your wife could go over to my place about eight, nine in the morning and sit with my wife. You know how wives get about this shit. Well, maybe you don't. But I can tell you, they don't handle it too good. So your wife can kinda keep Anna's mind off things, maybe until her stupid relatives get out to my place and they can all hang around crying and cooking. Okay? But don't mention any of this to your wife yet. Capisce? And try to be around for the next two, three weeks. You going on vacation or anything?"

"I guess not."

"Good. Stick around. Get lots of sleep on Monday nights. All right? Practise what you're gonna say in court. Get your brass balls on for the fucking Feds. We're gonna look good in court." He looked at me. "No jail, Counsellor. No jail.

That's what I promised you, that's what you promise me. You understand?"

"I promise I will do my best."

"Good." He stood and slapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, I got another problem. In Brooklyn, I got tomatoes the size of bull balls. Here it is the middle of July, and I got these small green things. But I see you got nice big ones, and those are the plants I gave you. Remember? So the soil must be different. I'm not embarrassed or anything, but this is hard to understand. So what I want is to trade you some of your tomatoes for something. I got lots of string beans. Okay? Deal?"

I don't like string beans, but we shook on it.

CHAPTER 23

Some days after the Fox Point powwow, I was up at the yacht club doing light maintenance on the Morgan. It was a weekday morning, and I was playing hooky from work, as usual. My partners had not commented directly on my extended absences, partly because they expect it in the summer, but also because they assume I am conscientious and would not let the firm down. In fact, they were wrong; my work was piling up, calls went unanswered, and the Locust Valley office had no one at the helm. People work better unsupervised anyway. Though I enjoy tinkering around the boat, I enjoy sailing it more. But with a sailboat, you really should have at least two people aboard, and it's sometimes difficult to find a crew during the workday. Carolyn and Edward were gone, of course, and Susan is only moderately enthusiastic about sailing, as I am about riding, and she begged off. There are friends who might be around during the week, but I'd been avoiding people lately. One can always rustle up a few college kids to crew, but in some irrational way, because I missed my own children, I didn't feel like having other kids around. So, today, I contented myself with putting my boat in order.

I was aware of leather-soled footsteps coming toward me on the pier. It was low tide, so I had to look up from the deck and squint into the morning sun to see who it was. Whoever it was, he was wearing a suit. He stopped and said, "Permission to come aboard."

"Not in those shoes."

So Mr Mancuso, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, dutifully removed his shoes, then jumped down onto the teak deck in his stocking feet. "Good morning," he said.

"Buon giorno," I replied.

He smiled with his big Chiclets. "I'm here to bring some aggravation and worry into your life."

"I'm already married." That was a pretty good one, and he smiled wider. He wasn't a laugher, but he did appreciate my wit. He was on the right track. He said, "Do you have a few minutes?"

"For my country, Mr Mancuso, I have nothing but time. However, I'm out of money and short on patience." I went about my business, which, at that moment, was coiling some half-inch line.

Mr Mancuso set his shoes down on the deck and watched me a moment, then looked around. "Nice boat."

"Thank you."

"Nice place." He waved his arm around, encompassing the whole club. "First-class operation."

"We try." I finished with the line and regarded Mr Mancuso a moment. He was as sallow as when I'd last seen him in April. He wore a light-beige suit of summer wool, which was well cut, a good shirt and tie, and, as I was about to see clearly, very nice socks. However, the frizzy fringe of hair and the woolly tuft still amused me.

He said, "You want to talk here, Mr Sutter? You feel comfortable here? You want to go inside the boat? Someplace else?"

"How long is a few minutes?"

"Maybe half an hour. Hour."

I considered a moment, then asked him, "You sail?"

"No."

"You do now. You probably won't need that tie and jacket." "Probably not." He took off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that held a big automatic, perhaps a Browning.

I glanced around at the nearby boats, then said to him, "Maybe you want to stow that below. You know, inside the boat." I pointed. "That's called below." "Sure." He ducked down the companionway and reappeared a few minutes later, tieless and barefoot now, his cuffs and shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked even more ludicrous. I stood at the helm and started the engine. "You know how to cast off?"

"Sure. I can do that."

And he did. Within a few minutes we were under way. The Morgan's helm is a spoked mahogany wheel, and I stood there at it, feeling in control of something for a change. I would have preferred to be under sail, but with Mancuso as my crew I thought I'd better let the engine take us clear of the moored boats and shoals.

I took the Paumanok around Plum Point into Cold Spring Harbor, still under power, and pointed the bow north toward the Sound, then slowed the engine. Still at the helm I said to Mr Mancuso, "See that winch? Crank that and it will raise the mainsail."

He did as he was told and the mainsail went up. A light breeze caught it, and the Paumanok moved through the water. I cut the engine and told him how to trim the sail, then I got him to raise the jib, and we started to make some headway. Poor Mr Mancuso was scrambling all over the decks in his good wool trousers, which, I'm afraid, were ruined. All in all, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I was happy for this unexpected opportunity to sail. Mr Mancuso, of course, wanted to speak to me about something, but for the time being he seemed content to have been shanghaied aboard the Paumanok. Mr Mancuso was a fast learner, at least as far as terminology, and within an hour, he knew a boom from a spreader, the headstay from the backstay, and presumably his ass from his elbow.

As I said, the wind was light, but it was from the south and got us well out into the Sound. About three miles off Lloyd's Neck, I showed him how to lower the sails. The wind was still southerly and the tide was ebbing, so we drifted safely away from the shore and shallow water. Still, I returned to the helm and played captain. I asked Mr Mancuso, "Did you enjoy that?" "Yes. I really did."

"It's more fun at night with high winds and heavy seas. Especially if your engine conks."

"Why is that, Mr Sutter?"

"Because you think you're going to-die."

"That does sound like fun."

"But, of course, the objective is not to die. So you put out your trysails and see if you can run before the wind to safety. Or maybe you lower all your sails, put the engine on full power, and head into the wind. There are other times when you might want to ride to a sea anchor. You have to make intelligent decisions. Not like with desk work where it really doesn't matter." He nodded. "About once a year I have to make a decision about pulling my gun. So I can appreciate what you're saying."

"Good." Having gotten the 'my balls are as big as your balls' stuff out of the way, I went below and poured two mugs of coffee from my thermos and brought them up. "Here." Thanks."

I stood at the helm in my faded jeans and T-shirt, one hand resting on the wheel, the other holding my mug. I really looked good. I regarded Mr Mancuso with his silly outfit and his pale skin, sitting on a cushioned locker. I said to him, "Did you say you wanted to speak to me about something?" He seemed to be contemplating what it was he'd wanted to say, as if perhaps it was no longer relevant. Finally, he said, "Mr Sutter, I have been an FBI agent for nearly twenty years."

"It must be interesting."

"Yes. Most of that time has been spent in various organized-crime task forces.

The Mafia is my special area of concern."

"Did you want sugar with that? I have no milk."

"No, thanks. So, I've seen a lot of what life is like in the underworld, Mr Sutter, and there is nothing romantic about it."

"Who ever said there was?"

"They hurt people, Mr Sutter. They sell drugs to children, force young girls into prostitution, extort money from honest businessmen. They engage in loan-sharking activities and beat people who can't make their payments. They corrupt unions and politicians -"

"I'm not sure who corrupts whom in that case."

"They murder people -"

"They murder other types of scum. They do not murder cops, businessmen, judges, or people like you or me, Mr Mancuso. I hear what you're saying, but the average citizen is more concerned with, and outraged by, random street violence, rapists, muggers, car thieves, armed robbers, burglars, and drug-crazed maniacs running around. I personally know people whose lives have been touched by those sorts of criminals, and so do you. I don't know anyone personally who has been a victim of the Mafia. Capisce?"

He smiled at that word, then nodded in agreement. "Yes, I understand that, Mr Sutter. But admit that organized crime and racketeering are hurting the entire nation in insidious ways that -" "Okay. I admit it. And I told you I'd sit on a jury in a Mafia case. That's more than a lot of citizens would do. You know why? Because they are frightened, Mr Mancuso."

"Well, there you are, Mr Sutter. People are frightened by mobsters. People -" "Well, of course they would be frightened if they had to sit on a jury. But that's a remote possibility. What people are really frightened of is walking down the street at night."

"The FBI doesn't patrol the streets, Mr Sutter. What you're talking about is another issue."

"Well, then, let's talk about the Mafia. Why would the average citizen be frightened to sit on a jury or testify in an organized-crime case? I'll tell you why; because you are not doing your job."

For the first lime, Mr Mancuso seemed annoyed with me. In truth, he had shown a good deal of patience on this occasion and the last, but I could see I'd gotten to him. Actually, I was only blowing smoke at him, and I wanted him to tell me that everything was under control, that the republic was safe, and that I would be able to walk the streets of New York in a few more weeks, maybe a month. But that wasn't the case. He did, however, give me some hopeful news. He put his mug on the deck and stood. He said, "In fact, Mr Sutter, we are doing our job. In fact, sir, we are winning the war against organized crime." "Have you told the Mafia this?"

"They know it very well. Better than the American public, which is fed mostly bad news. But let me give a good-news headline: MAFIA ON THE RUN." I smiled but said nothing.

Mr Mancuso went on, "Since 1984, Mr Sutter, the federal government has obtained hundreds of convictions under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act – the RICO Act. We have seized millions of dollars in properly and cash, and we have destroyed or seriously damaged nearly all of the twenty-four organized-crime families in this country. There is only one remaining stronghold of the Mafia in America, and that is here in New York. And of New York's five traditional crime families, four have been crippled by prosecutions and by death and by early retirements. The old legendary dons are all gone now. The calibre of the remaining leadership is very low. Only one family remains strong, and only one leader commands respect."

"Who could that be?"

Mr Mancuso, having delivered himself of this satisfying monologue, smiled. "You know who."

I asked him, "What is your point?"

"Well, the point, obviously, is Frank Bellarosa and your relationship with him." "I see." Mr Mancuso had intrigued me, and it occurred to me that he could answer some questions for me, rather than vice versa. I asked him, "How rich is Mr Bellarosa?"

He thought a moment, then replied, "We estimate that his illegal empire grosses about six hundred million dollars a year -" "Six hundred million? Mamma mia, Mr Mancuso."

Mr Mancuso smiled. "Yes. But I don't know how much profit there is and how much of that he keeps personally. We do know that he is involved in fourteen legitimate businesses -" "Sixteen."

Mr Mancuso regarded me a moment, then continued, "Fourteen or more legitimate businesses, from which he showed a taxable income last year of five and a half million dollars."

"And he paid his taxes?"

"Oh, yes. Overpaid, actually. The IRS refunded him some two hundred thousand dollars. He had a serious tax problem some years back that sent him away for nineteen months. So he's very careful with his taxes on his legitimate income." Mr Mancuso added, "I would not be surprised if he asked you to do his tax work at some point."

I didn't reply, but asked, "Why do you suppose he's not satisfied with five million legitimate dollars a year?"

Mr Mancuso informed me, "There are other factors at work, Mr Sutter. Bellarosa is a unique personality. He does not make decisions the way you or I would. This man fought his way to the top of New York's largest crime family, and he killed or caused to be killed at least nine men whom he perceived to be a danger to him, or who were, in fact, a danger to him, or men who were simply in his way during his pursuit of the emperor's crown. Personalities like this exist, of course, and history is full of them. Frank Bellarosa is a power freak. The money is incidental. Do you see?"

"I understand."

"Understand, too, that he likes living on the edge. You may find this hard to believe, Mr Sutter, but in his primitive way he enjoys being the target of assassins. His enemies can pay him no higher compliment than trying to kill him. Capisce?"

I smiled involuntarily. "Capisce."

"No, you say capisco. I understand. Capisce?"

"Capisco."

"Very good. But work on your accent. I understand your wife speaks some Italian.

Maybe she can help you."

I didn't reply. In fact, neither of us spoke for a while. As the Paumanok drifted, I realized that I should, at some point, let Mr Mancuso know that I was representing the man who was the subject of our conversation. But as he hadn't asked, and since nothing of a confidential nature was being discussed yet, I let it slide. I wanted to know more about my client, and since my client wouldn't even admit that there was a Mafia, let alone that he was the emperor of it, I figured that Mr Mancuso was my best source. I asked, "How big is his empire, actually? Not money, but people."

Mr Mancuso studied me awhile, then replied, "Well, again, these are estimates, but we think that Bellarosa controls the activities of three thousand men." "That's a big company."

"Yes. And at the core of his organization are three hundred of what we call "made" men. Men who have made their bones. Do you understand what that means?" "I'm afraid I do."

"And all of these hard-core mafiosi are Italian, mostly Sicilian or Neapolitan."

"And which are you, Mr Mancuso?"

"Neither, Mr Sutter. I am a true Roman on both sides of my family."

"Interesting. And Mr Ferragamo?"

He smiled. "I hear that his ancestors were from Florence. They are very cultured there. Why do you ask?"

"I'm just trying to read the subtexts, Mr Mancuso."

"I assure you, Mr Sutter, there are no subtexts."

"Perhaps not. But tell me about these Sicilians and Neapolitans." He hesitated a moment, then replied, "I suppose it might matter where Bellarosa's crime family had its ancestral origins, in that there are historical and family ties that we must consider and comprehend in order to effectively prosecute these people."

"I see. So there are about three hundred hard-core members, and about three thousand others."

"Yes. Associates. At the top is Frank Bellarosa. He has an underboss, a man named Salvatore D'Alessio, aka Sally Da-da, who is Bellarosa's wife's sister's husband. Sort of his brother-in-law. Family relationships are very important to these people. When they can't determine if a bloodline exists, they try to determine if they are related by some marriage or another. Lacking anything there, they will form ties and bonds through christenings. You know, godparents and godchildren. These ties are important because they are used to claim and to reinforce loyalty. Loyalty and respect are number one and number two on the agenda. After that, everything else follows. That's why they have been so incredibly difficult to penetrate, and so successful for a century." I nodded. "And why pale Wasps like me might tend to glamorize and romanticize them."

"Perhaps."

"But you see them more clearly, Mr Mancuso."

"I believe I do."

"Good. So, there is an underboss. Where does the consigliere fit in?"

"He is next in the chain. Their hierarchy is somewhat unique in that respect. This trusted adviser sometimes has more power than the underboss. He is the one who relays instructions to the capos, who are in charge of the gangs. Why do you want to know this?"

"I'm just trying to get a picture of my next-door neighbour. Where does a man like Jack Weinstein fit it?"

"Weinstein? Bellarosa's attorney?"

"Yes. Where does he fit in?"

"Well, if the attorney is not Italian, and I presume Jack Weinstein is not, then he occupies some sort of limbo. In Weinstein's case, he has beaten two serious criminal charges for Frank Bellarosa, before Bellarosa became the boss. Bellarosa, therefore, would be grateful, and he might respect Jack Weinstein, the way you or I would be grateful to and respectful of a surgeon who twice saved our lives. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Why do you ask about Jack Weinstein, Mr Sutter?"

"Professional curiosity. Also, I'm a little tired of the tax business." Mancuso smiled, but it was a worried smile. He said, This is all abstract, Mr Sutter. Let me tell you a story about Mr Bellarosa. There are many, but I'll tell you one that I can swear to. When Bellarosa was a capo, he summoned a man named Vito Posilico to meet him in his social club on Mott Street. When Mr Posilico arrived, Frank Bellarosa ordered coffee and they sat and talked. Bellarosa then accused Posilico of withholding money from the proceeds of an extortion of a building contractor. The contractor, an honest businessman incidentally, paid Posilico fifty thousand dollars for a guarantee of labour peace during the time the builder was working on a big project. Bellarosa had taken his half share from Posilico – twenty-five thousand dollars – but now claimed that Posilico had shaken the contractor down for one hundred thousand dollars. Posilico denied this, of course, and offered to prove this to his capo in several ways. But Frank Bellarosa did not want to be proven wrong, especially in front of other people. What he wanted was for Posilico to show respect, to confess, to crawl and beg for mercy. Or, if he still insisted on his innocence, to do so in a way that showed he was frightened. But Vito Posilico had too big an ego, and though he was respectful, he was firm in his denial. He said, "I'll get the contractor here in fifteen minutes, Frank. You can talk to him." Then Posilico raised his cup to his lips to drink, and Frank Bellarosa drew a lead pipe from somewhere and smashed Posilico's fingers, the cup, and his teeth. Then he stood and proceeded to break nearly every bone in the man's body. To give you an example."

Wow. I let go of the wheel and leaned back against the rail. Yes, I could easily picture Bellarosa, wielding a lead pipe, cigar in his mouth, cracking a man's bones because of some suspicion of thievery. In truth, Bellarosa would have broken old Richard's arm for taking his salad away if we had been in Bellarosa's club rather than mine. And this was the man whom Susan liked. I watched the wheel move to and fro as the rising wind and current carried the boat farther out. Evil and viciousness, I thought, are only fully understandable in anecdotal form. To hear that a man murdered nine nameless people to get to the top is distressful, but to hear in detail how he smashed Vito Posilico's face and teeth with a lead pipe is gut wrenching.

Mr Mancuso broke into my thoughts. "Why would a man like you associate with a man like that?"

"Are you here on government business, Mr Mancuso, or are you here to save my soul?"

"Both, Mr Sutter, as they happen to coincide." He regarded me a moment, then said, "I don't know you, but I know a lot about you. I know that you are a church-going man, a law-abiding citizen, a family man, a successful and respected attorney, a respected member of your community, and an army veteran. Frank Bellarosa is a malignancy on society, a vicious criminal, and a man whose soul is going to burn in hell for eternity."

The last thing caught me by surprise, and I must have shown it. I replied, "I'm not arguing with you. Come to the point."

"I would like your help."

"How?"

"We have a court order to tap Bellarosa's phones. But he knows that, of course, and he doesn't say anything on the telephone, so -" "And you overheard my conversations with him?"

"Yes. We know about the variance, the stables, and about his asking you to walk with him to Fox Point. Incidentally, you have a good sense of humour. And I'm happy to discover that you are not intimidated by him. He puts up with a lot of your sarcasm. I wonder why."

"I think it goes over his thick head, Mr Mancuso."

"Perhaps. Anyway, we know that you and your wife went there one night, of course, and I have photos of you waving at us, and photos of you walking with Bellarosa to Fox Point. We know, too, that you took him and his wife to your country club, and that this caused you some problems with your friends. Also, we've heard your wife talking to Mrs Bellarosa on the phone, and even with Mr Bellarosa a few times." He watched me a moment, then added, "Your wife spends a good deal of time at Alhambra. We understand that she is painting a picture of the house. Correct?"

"My wife is a professional painter. Artists, writers, and whores work for anyone with the cash."

"But attorneys don't?"

"Depends on the cash."

"Your wife did not charge the Bellarosas for the painting."

"How do you know that?"

"There are things I know that I would be happy to share with you, Mr Sutter, if you would do me a few favours."

I did not reply.

He said, "What we need is for you to plant three or four bugs in Bellarosa's house. One in his den, one in the entranceway, maybe one in his greenhouse where we see him talking to his goombahs, and definitely one in the kitchen where he probably does most of his business because he's Italian." Mr Mancuso flashed all his Chiclets.

"How about his bedroom?"

"We don't do that." He added, "Not too much goes on there anyway." He walked toward me on the rolling boat and put his hand on my arm as though to steady himself. "Can we count on you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well… I'm his attorney."

He took a step back as if I'd said I had a communicable disease.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. I am. Specifically, he wants me to represent him in the matter of the murder of Juan Carranza." I studied Mr Mancuso's face and saw it was not a happy face.

He went to the portside rail and looked out to sea awhile. I realized that I had made a tactical blunder in relating this to him if Bellarosa actually wanted it to remain a secret until his arrest, arraignment, and bail hearing. But that was a small mistake, and I was bound to make a few more since I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings. Also, Bellarosa had, at one point, wanted me to speak to Mancuso about Ferragamo, so I was not actually violating a privileged conversation. I said to Mancuso, "Do you want to know why I agreed to represent him?"

Without turning around, Mancuso replied, "I could speculate, Mr Sutter, and if I did, I would say it had nothing to do with cash."

"No, it doesn't. In fact, I'm repaying a favour. But the main reason is that I believe Bellarosa is innocent of that particular allegation." He turned toward me. "Do you? Why do you believe that?" "Among other reasons, because Bellarosa has convinced me that the U.S. Attorney, Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, is framing him for that murder. Actually not just framing him, but setting him up to be murdered by the Colombians or by Bellarosa's own people to keep the peace with the Colombians." I watched Mr Mancuso closely. He has a very expressive face, which is not good for a cop, and I could see that he did not find this statement absurd. Bellarosa was right about watching faces when I made this accusation. I said to Mr Mancuso, "I will relate to you what Bellarosa told me." And for the next ten minutes, I did just that. I concluded by saying, "Bellarosa said you are an honest man. So if you are, then tell me honestly, does this sound plausible to you?"

He stared down at the deck for a full minute, then without looking up at me replied, "A United States Attorney is not going to jeopardize his career and his very freedom for personal revenge."

"Well, I wouldn't have thought so three months ago, but -" – I affected an Italian accent – "but now I'ma learna abouta you paesanos, Mistah Mancuso, an' I'ma thinkin', maybe Mistah Bellarosa knowsa whas ina Mistah Ferragamo's head. Capisce?"

Mr Mancuso didn't seem amused.

I added, reverting to my normal accent, "Save Mr Ferragamo's soul, Mr Mancuso. Remind him that revenge is a sin. If he backs off, that will let me off the hook as well. Tell him to find something better than a frame-up for Frank Bellarosa. Tell him to play fair."

Mr Mancuso did not respond.

I glanced at my watch, then said to Mr Mancuso, "I'll show you how to tack.

Raise the mainsail first."

And so we set sail for home, tacking through the wind, and fighting the tide, which was still running out. After about an hour with little headway, a weary Mr Mancuso inquired, "Can't you just start the engine?"

"I could, but sailing into the wind is very instructive. It's a test of skill and patience. It is allegorical."

"It's a useless exercise," declared the crew.

We rounded Plum Point, and the wind shifted in a more favourable direction, so we made better headway. Mr Mancuso was kneeling on the foredeck, holding on to the rail. He seemed to enjoy the wind in the sails and the bow cutting through the water. I had advised him to put on a life jacket or tie on a lifeline, but he assured me he was an excellent swimmer. I called out to him, "Did you people screw me up with the IRS?"

He turned and looked at me, then called back, "No. But we know about that."

"I'm sure you do."

He added, "I didn't do that. You have my word on that." I called over the sound of the wind and water, "Maybe not you, but someone in your office."

"No. We don't fool around with the IRS. It's not legal, and we don't trust them."

"Then you couldn't get me off the hook with them?"

"We could put in a good word for you. But I can't promise you anything." But Frank Bellarosa and Mr Melzer could unconditionally promise me things. How utterly depressing and demoralizing.

He called to me, "Would you like me to put in a good word for you?"

"Sure. Tell them I go to church and I'm a good sailor."

"Will do. You want to plant some bugs for me?"

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can. But you have to resign as his attorney. You have to be ethical."

Mr Mancuso was into ethics. I called to him, "Lower the jib."

The what?"

"The sail flapping over your head."

He lowered the jib, then the staysail and the mainsail, and I started the engine. When you have an inexperienced crew, it's best to go into port under power and avoid a major embarrassment, like ploughing into a moored boat while people are having drinks on the clubhouse veranda.

We came alongside the pier, and I cut the engine as Mr Mancuso expertly lassoed a piling. We secured the Paumanok, and we both went below to collect our things. As Mr Mancuso put on his tie and gun, he said to me, "You're not defending Frank Bellarosa solely on the basis of your belief that he is innocent of this murder, Mr Sutter. Any attorney can do that. I think you are just playing with high explosives because you enjoy the danger. Like sailing in a storm at night. I know life can get boring, Mr Sutter, and people with time and money on their hands often need something to get their blood moving. Some men gamble, some race cars or boats, some climb mountains, some have affairs, some do it all." "At the same time?"

"But, Mr Sutter, there is a price to pay for the thrill. There are consequences.

Danger is dangerous."

"I know that, Mr Mancuso. Where did you get your law degree, if I may ask?"

"Georgetown."

"Excellent. Can I double your salary, Mr Mancuso? We need a Catholic. You have your twenty years in with the FBI."

He smiled. "I'm not counting years, Mr Sutter. I want to finish this job. If it takes another twenty years to smash the Mafia in New York, then, God willing, I'll still be at it."

"Please keep my offer in mind. It is a serious offer."

"I appreciate the thought. It is seductive. But what I want to say to you, Mr

Sutter, is that evil is seductive, and -"

"What did you say?"

"Evil is seductive. Do you understand?"

"Yes…"

"And virtue is boring. Evil seems to pay better than virtue, but virtue, Mr Sutter, is its own reward. You know that."

"Of course I know that. I am an honest man. I am doing nothing dishonest with Frank Bellarosa."

Mr Mancuso put his jacket on and gathered his shoes and socks. "But being involved with Frank Bellarosa is unethical, immoral, and unwise. Very unwise." He stepped closer to me in the small galley where we were standing. "Listen to me, Mr Sutter. Forget that I asked you to bug Bellarosa's house, and that he may be innocent of this particular charge. The man is evil. I like you, Mr Sutter, and I want to give you good advice. Tell Frank Bellarosa to go away and stay away from you and your wife." He actually grabbed me by the arm and put his face near mine. "I am the voice of truth and reality. Listen to my voice. That man will destroy you and your family. And it will be your fault, Mr Sutter, not his fault. For the love of God, tell him to leave you alone." He was absolutely right, of course, so I said, "Thank you. I like you, Mr Mancuso. You restore my faith in humanity, but not in much else. I'll think about what you've said."

Mr Mancuso released my arm. "Thank you for the ride, Mr Sutter. Have a pleasant day." He went up the companionway and disappeared on deck. After a minute, I followed and saw him on the pier slipping into his shoes. There were a few other people around now, and they were all watching this man in a suit who had come off my boat. At least a few people probably thought that Mr Mancuso was a friend of Mr Bellarosa's – as was John Sutter – and that Sutter and this Mafia fellow had just dumped a few bodies at sea. I called out to Mr Mancuso, "Ferragamo and Bellarosa belong in the same cell.

You and I should go sailing again."

He waved to me as he disappeared behind a big, berthed Allied fifty-five footer that I would buy if I had three hundred thousand dollars;

I got some polish from the locker and shined up a brass cleat until it gleamed in the sunlight.

CHAPTER 24

The week after Mr Mancuso and I went sailing, I was helping George Allard plant boxtrees where the central wing of the stables had once been. It was hard work, and I could have had it done professionally, but I like planting trees, and George has an obsession with saving old skinflint Stanhope a few dollars. When men work together, despite class differences, they revert to a natural and instinctive sort of comradeship. Thus, I found I was enjoying my conversation with George, and George himself seemed a little looser, joking and even making an indiscreet remark about his employer. "Mr Stanhope," said George, "offered the missus and me ten thousand dollars to leave the gatehouse. Who's he think is going to do all this work if I weren't here?"

"Mr Stanhope may have a buyer for the entire estate," I said.

"He's got a buyer? Who?"

"I'm not sure he does, George, but Mr Stanhope wants to be able to offer an empty gatehouse if and when he does, or he wants to be able to sell the gatehouse separately."

George nodded. "Well, I don't want to be a problem, but…" "Don't worry about it. I've looked at August Stanhope's will, and it's clear that you and Mrs Allard have lifetime rights of tenancy. Don't let William Stanhope pressure you, and don't take his offer." I added, "You couldn't rent comparable housing for less than twenty thousand a year around here." "Oh, I know that, Mr Sutter. It wasn't much of an offer, and even if he offers more, I wouldn't leave. This is my home."

"Good. We need you at the gate."

It was a hot day, and the work was heavy for a man his age. But men are competitive in this regard, and George was going to show me that he could keep up.

At noon, I said to him, "That's enough for now. I'll meet you back here at about two."

I walked home and had lunch alone as Susan was out, then wrote to my sister, Emily. When I returned to meet George, I found him lying on the ground between unplanted trees. I knelt beside him, but there were no signs of life. George Allard was dead. The gates to Stanhope Hall were unguarded. The wake, held in a funeral home in Locust Valley, was well attended by other elderly estate workers whom the Allards had known over the years. Interestingly, a few older gentry put in appearances as well, ladies and gentlemen of the old vanished world, looking like ghosts themselves, come to pay their respects to one of their own.

The Stanhopes, of course, felt obligated to come in from Hilton Head. They hadn't actually wished George dead, of course, but you knew that the subject had come up in their private conversations over the years, and that it had come up in a way that if you overheard them, you might think they were looking forward to it.

Susan's brother, Peter, still trying to find the meaning of life – this month in Acapulco – could not make it in to contemplate the meaning of death. I was sorry that Carolyn could not be reached in time in Cuba, but Edward flew up from Cocoa Beach.

Many of my family in and around Locust Valley and Lattingtown stopped by the funeral home as they all knew and liked the Allards. My parents, according to Aunt Cornelia, had gone to Europe so I'll never know if they would have driven in for the funeral, and I really don't care, as all gestures on their part are meaningless, I've decided.

There was no reason for Emily to come in from Texas, as she didn't know the Allards that well, but she sent me a cheque to give to Ethel. It is customary when an old servant dies to take up a collection for the widow, this being a holdover, I suppose, from the days before servants had life insurance or Social Security. A good number of people passed cheques or cash to me to give to Ethel. William Stanhope knew this, of course, but didn't come up with any cash of his own. His reasoning, I'm sure, was that he was still obligated to pay Ethel her monthly stipend, as per Augustus's will, and that Ethel was still in the gatehouse, and now George was about to occupy a piece of the Stanhope family plot; though in point of fact, there is more Stanhope family plot left than there are Stanhopes left to occupy it. So he wasn't giving away anything valuable, as usual.

There was no reason for the Bellarosas to come to the funeral home, of course, but Italians, as I've discovered over the years, rarely pass up a funeral. So Frank and Anna stopped in for ten minutes one afternoon, and their presence caused a small stir of excitement, as if they were celebrities. The Bellarosas knelt at the coffin and crossed themselves, then checked out the flower arrangement they'd sent – which incidentally took two men to carry in – then left. They looked as if they did this often.

The Remsens stopped by the funeral home late Friday afternoon – after the closing bell and before happy hour at The Creek – but they pointedly avoided me, though they chatted with Susan for a minute.

One would think that, in the presence of death, people would be compelled into a larger appreciation of life and a sharper perspective of its meaning. One would think that. But to be honest, whatever petty grievances I, myself, had outside the funeral parlour were the same ones I carried inside. Why should Lester Remsen or William Stanhope or anyone be any different? People like the DePauws, Potters, Vandermeers, and so forth, who might have stopped by for a moment as our friends and neighbours out of a sense of noblesse oblige, sent flowers instead. I didn't want to read anything into this, but I could have. I was sure they would make it to my funeral. Jim and Sally Roosevelt did come, and Jim was very good with Ethel, sitting for an hour with her and holding her hand. Sally looks good in black.

So we buried George Allard after church services at St Mark's on a pleasant Saturday morning. The cemetery is a few miles from Stanhope Hall, a private place with no name, filled with the departed rich, and in pharaonic style, with a few dozen loyal servants (though none of them had been killed for their masters' burials), and dozens of pets, and even two polo ponies, one of which was responsible for his rider's death. The old rich insist on being batty right to the end, and beyond.

As I said, George was interred in the Stanhope plot, which is a good-sized piece of land, and ironically the last piece of land the Stanhopes were destined to own on Long Island.

At graveside, there were about fifteen people in attendance, with the Reverend Mr Hunnings officiating; there was the widow, Ethel, the Allards' daughter, Elizabeth, her husband and their two children, William and Charlotte Stanhope, Susan, Edward, and I, plus a few other people whom I didn't know. On the way to the cemetery, the funeral cortege, as is customary, passed by the house of the deceased, and I saw that someone had put a funeral wreath on the gates of Stanhope Hall, something I hadn't seen in years. Why that custom has died out is beyond me, for what could be more natural than to announce to the world, to unwary callers, that there has been a death in the house and that, no, we don't want any encyclopedias or Avon products today. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," said the Reverend Mr Hunnings, throwing a handful of soil atop the coffin. This is when clergy earn their pay. But Hunnings always struck me as a method actor who was playing the part of a priest in a long-running off-Broadway show. Why do I dislike this man? Maybe because he's conned everyone else. But George had seen through him. Hunnings actually delivered a nice eulogy, though I noticed that he never once mentioned the possibility of heaven as a real place. No use talking about a place you've never been to and have no chance of ever going to. Anyway, I was glad, in some perverse way, that I was the last one to see George alive and that we had spoken, and that he died doing what he liked best and where he liked doing it. I had spoken to Ethel and to his daughter, Elizabeth, about our last conversation, and of course, I embellished it a bit in an effort to bring them some comfort. But basically George had been a happy man on the day he died, and that was more than most of us can hope for. I, myself, would not mind dropping dead on my own property, if I owned any property. But better yet, perhaps, I'd like to die on my boat, at sea, and be buried at sea. The thought of dying at my desk upsets me greatly. But if I could choose how and when I wanted to die, I would want to be an eighty-year-old man shot by a jealous young husband who had caught me in bed with his teenage wife. The graveside service was ended, and we all threw a flower on the casket as we filed past on our way to our cars.

As I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, "Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her." "I understand," I replied, then added, "No, I'll go back for her." It's so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.

Elizabeth replied, "That would be nice. Thank you. We'll see you back at the church." Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. "Where is Edward?" I inquired of Susan.

"He is riding with his grandparents."

"All right." I fell in behind someone's car and exited the cemetery. Burial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you're a member of St Mark's, you usually gather after the funeral at the church's fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It's not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.

As I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel's decision not to go along with the planned programme, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.

Susan said to me, "That was very thoughtful of you."

I replied, "I am an uncommonly thoughtful man."

Susan didn't second that, but asked me, "Would you weep over my grave?" I knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, "It would really depend on the circumstances." "Meaning what?"

"Well, what if we were divorced?"

There was a second of silence, then she said, "You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years." "Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?" I added, "Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever." "You Italian, or what?" She laughed.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing… anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives – Mater and Pater to be specific – to take a hike."

"Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other's funeral." "I will be at yours. You have my word on that."

I didn't like this subject, so I changed it. "Do you think Ethel will be all right alone in the gatehouse?"

"I'll check on her more often. Perhaps we'll have her to dinner a few times a week."

"Good idea." Actually, it wasn't, as I don't care for Ethel's company, though I care for her as a person, even if she is a socialist. She might be better off living with her Republican daughter, but I didn't think that was a possibility. I noticed, too, that William Stanhope had been eyeing her as though he were sizing her up for a casket. I had no doubt that he would pull me off to the side sometime in the next few days and ask me to suggest to Ethel that she leave the gatehouse. William, of course, was desirous of selling the quaint house to yuppies, or successful artists, or anyone with a romantic bent and about a quarter million dollars. Or of course, if anything came of Bellarosa's interest in the entire estate, then, as I'd said to George, William would like all the serfs gone (unless he could sell them as well).

Naturally, I would assure my father-in-law that I would do my best to get old Ethel out, but actually I'd do the opposite as I'd done with George just a few days ago. William Stanhope is a monumental prick, and so outrageously insensitive and self-centred that he actually believes he can ask me for my help in enriching him, and I'm supposed to do his bidding (for free) because I'm married to his daughter. What a swine.

"Mother and Father looked good," Susan said. "Very tan and fit."

"It's good to see them again."

"They're staying for three or four more days."

"Can't they stay longer?"

She gave me a sidelong glance, and I realized I was pushing my credibility. I hadn't told William or his wife to go to hell yet, as I'd promised myself I would, and I'm glad I hadn't because that could only confuse the issue between Susan and me.

I pulled up to the church, and Susan opened her door. "That was very touching. I mean what Ethel did, staying behind to be with her husband. They were together a half century, John. They don't make marriages like that anymore." "No. Do you know why men die before their wives?"

"No, why?"

"Because they want to."

"I'll see you later." Susan got out of the car and headed toward the fellowship room, and I headed back to the cemetery.

Funerals are, of course, a time to reflect on your life. I mean, if you need any evidence that you're not immortal, that hole in the ground is it. So you naturally start to wonder if you're getting it right, then you wonder why it matters if you do. I mean, if Hunnings and his cohorts have removed the fear of a fiery hell and the promise of a four-star heaven, who gives a damn what you do on earth? Well, I do, because I still believe in right and wrong, and without embarrassment I'll tell you I believe in a comfortable heaven. I know that George is there even if Hunnings forgot to mention it. But afterlife considerations aside, one does wonder if one could be getting a little more fun out of life. I mean, I still enjoy life, but I recall very well a time when things were better at home. So, I must answer the age-old question:

Do I move or make home improvements?

I pulled into the gate of the cemetery and drove along the tree-shaded lane to the Stanhope section. It was interesting that the Stanhopes, who needed so much land in life, were all comfortably situated on an acre now, with room for more. I stopped a short distance from the new grave and noticed that the gravediggers were nearly finished covering it. I noticed, too, that Ethel was nowhere to be seen.

I got out of the car and started for the grave to inquire of the gravediggers where she might be. But then I turned toward the south end of the Stanhope section, the older section where weathered marble headstones rose amid thick plantings.

Ethel Allard stood with her back to me at a grave whose headstone bore the name AUGUSTUS STANHOPE.

I watched for a second or two, but felt as if I'd intruded on a private moment. Though in truth, I hadn't stumbled upon this scene by accident; I somehow knew that Ethel would be there. I suppose I could have backed off behind the hedges and called out for her, like the old John Sutter would have done, but instead I said, "Ethel, it's time to go."

She glanced over her shoulder at me without surprise or embarrassment and nodded. But she remained at the grave for some time longer, then took a white rose that she had been holding and tossed it on Augustus Stanhope's grave. Ethel turned and came toward me, and I could see there were tears in her eyes. We walked side by side toward my car and she said to me, "I loved him very much."

Who? "Of course you did."

"And he loved me dearly."

"I'm sure he did." Who?

She began sobbing and I put my arm around her. She actually leaned her head on my shoulder as I led her to the car. She said, "But it could never be. Not in those days."

Ah. My God, what funny people we are. I said, "But it's good that you had something. That's better than nothing."

"I still miss him."

"That's very nice. Very lovely." And it was, odd as the circumstances were, considering why we were there. And the moral was this: Go for it; it's later than you think.

I put her in the car and we drove back to the church without exchanging another word.

The morning after the funeral, Edward and I finished planting the boxtrees. As we dug in the hot sun, he sort of looked at me as if I might keel over myself and die on the spot. He said, "Take a break, Dad."

"I'm in top shape. You need the break."

We sat under the chestnut tree and we drank spring water. Children don't think much about death, which is as it should be. But when they are confronted with it, it is not always processed properly or understood in its context. Some children shrug it off, others become maudlin. We spoke about death and dying for a while, coming up with no great revelations, but at least talking it out. Edward is fortunate in that he has all four grandparents – well, fortunate might not be the right word in the case of those four – but this is more common today as people live longer. And in fact, George Allard's funeral was the first one Edward had attended. Carolyn, at nineteen, has not gone to a funeral. And, I think, we've all, to some extent, come to believe that death is unnatural in modern American society, that somehow the deceased and the family of the deceased have been'cheated. I said to him, "Death is the natural order of things. I would not want to live in a world without death, Edward. In the old days, they used to call death the final reward. It still is." "I guess. But how about when a kid dies?"

"That's harder to comprehend or deal with. I have no answers for that." And so we kicked death around awhile. American parents are obsessed with the First Sex Talk; when it should occur, what should be said. Parents, I think, should give as much time and thought to preparing their children for their first experience with the death of a loved one.

We finished the plantings, and Edward said to me, "Would you mind if I went back to Florida tomorrow?"

"Were you having a good time?"

"Yes."

"Then get back there. How are the girls?"

"Well… okay."

"You were taught about safe and responsible sex in health class?"

"Yes."

"Anything else you want to know about safe sex?"

"No. I've had it up to here with that subject."

I smiled. "Anything you want to know about good sex?"

He grinned. "Sure. If you know anything about it."

"Hey, watch yourself, wise guy." I think I know where this kid gets his sense of humour.

We went back to the house, cleaned up, then went riding, Edward on Zanzibar, me on Yankee. As we crossed Bellarosa's land, I asked Edward, "Did you ever say anything to Mr Bellarosa about my having to sell the summer house for tax money?"

He looked at me as we rode. "No. Why would I tell him that?"

"He seemed to know about that."

"Not from me."

After a minute, he made an unconscious mental connection and said, "I saw the picture Mom painted. It's really terrific. You seen it?" "Not yet."

We rode until dusk, then we met Susan at a seafood restaurant on the Sound and had dinner together. We talked about the shark that got away, about the submarine sighting, and about dinner at Buddy's Hole, which was funny and sad at the same time. We spoke about the things that would become family history in this summer of change, growth, and death.

The next morning, I drove Edward to the airport. We don't see people off at the gate anymore, but I shook his hand before he passed through the metal detector and watched him disappear into the crowd.

William and Charlotte Stanhope were staying at one of the cottages at The Creek, and not with us, thank you, God. William took the opportunity of George's funeral to do some business while he was in New York. At Susan's suggestion, Squire Stanhope made an appointment with the Bishop of Alhambra. They met at Alhambra first, without me present, then came back to Stanhope Hall, walked around, kicked the bricks, and struck a deal. I didn't actually see them strike the deal, but I could picture them, standing in the sacred grove, pitchforks in hand, cloven hooves bared, touching horns and wiggling their tails.

Anyway, we had dinner that night in Locust Valley; Susan and John, William and Charlotte. William fittingly picked an Italian restaurant, a very good restaurant, and very expensive. William does have good taste in restaurants, as opposed to my parents. But as William is my client, and as we were going to do a few minutes' worth of business, I was supposed to bill the dinner to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. William pulls this every time he's in town, but my firm has never done a dime's worth of business with him, and he doesn't even pay me personally. Therefore, I always pay the bill with my own credit card. So William gave me the business. "John," said he, "your neighbour bought not only the house, but all the acreage. We'll draw up a contract tomorrow morning. Two million down, eighteen million at closing. I'll meet you at ten in the Locust Valley office, and we'll go over the details. He uses Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove for real estate deals. You know them, so we won't have any problems with this deal. Now, let's close in a few weeks. He's got the money. No use waiting. You notify the tax people tomorrow that they can take the property off the auction block. They'll have their money in about thirty days. Do that first thing. And call Cooper and Stiles first thing and tell them to expect to receive and to read the contract by tomorrow afternoon. And I want them to get to their client with the contract the following day. None of this lawyerly foot-dragging. The whole Japanese Empire was surrendered with a one-page document that took five minutes to sign."

How would you know? You were fishing off Martha's Vineyard. "Yes, sir."

"And John, you'll keep this strictly confidential."

"Yes, sir."

William went on, "I think the idiot believes he can subdivide the acreage and make a killing. I want to nail this down before he learns otherwise. You speak to Cooper and Stiles about that without making it obvious what you don't want them to say to their client. They won't say anything anyway, because they want the fee."

"Yes, sir." Frank Bellarosa was many things, but an idiot wasn't one of them. "He probably thinks he can bribe or threaten government officials to have the land rezoned. He's got a lot to learn about how we conduct public affairs here." I said, "I think he wants the land to bury bodies." William gave me a look of annoyance. He doesn't appreciate my humour at all, which is probably why I hate him.

He said, "Bellarosa's deed will include the gatehouse, too, of course. He wasn't happy about the Allards' lifetime tenancy. But I told him that if he made the widow a reasonable offer, she'd leave. If he can't get her out, no one can." William nearly smiled, and I nearly put my fist in his mouth. He added, "Meantime, the son of a bitch wants to hold a half million in escrow until the gatehouse is vacated and unencumbered. So put that in the contract, but let's see if we can get a promise from Ethel to move, and pass that on to Bellarosa." "Yes, sir."

He looked at me and said, "I discovered why you didn't want to dine at The Creek tonight, John. You're the subject of some heated debate over there. That's very awkward for me."

And it will get a lot more awkward for you when your friends find out you sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa. I said, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry about that." He looked at me closely, then said, "I'd like to give you some advice. Don't get involved with that man."

"You just sold him Stanhope Hall," I pointed out.

He stopped eating and his yellow eyes narrowed. "That was business." "So is my involvement with him, sir. Your daughter handles our social involvements."

So, there was what you call dead silence for a while, during which time I thought Susan might say something on my behalf. But Susan pays me the compliment of not defending me or speaking for me. I do the same for her. Charlotte Stanhope finally broke the silence and said, "Poor Ethel. She looked frightful." She turned to me. "Do you think she can manage alone?" Charlotte has a trilly sort of voice that you think is going to trail off into a series of chirps. She's well bred, of course, and seems on the surface to be a nice lady, but in her own quiet way, she's as vicious as her husband. "John? Do you think poor Ethel can manage alone?"

I replied, "I'll inquire as soon as a respectable period of time has passed." "Of course. The poor dear, she would be so much better situated with her daughter."

We chatted about this and that while we ate, or at least they did. I was simmering.

William returned to the subject of the sale. He said to my wife, "I'm sorry, Susan, if this sale causes you any inconvenience. But it had to happen. And I don't think you need worry about houses going up so soon. Now that Bellarosa owns the land, you and I will contribute five or ten thousand to the Preservation Fund, anonymously, of course, so he doesn't get wind of it. They'll hold him up in court for years. But meanwhile, Bellarosa assured me that you may continue to use the land in any way you see fit, for riding, gardening, walks, just as if I still owned it. In fact, he's willing to sign a covenant to that effect."

"That's very good of you to think to ask him about that," said Susan to Mr Thoughtful.

William smiled at his daughter. "It could have been worse, you know. At least you know this fellow. And he speaks well of you." He paused. "He's quite a character. But not the thug I expected."

I didn't think William would find much fault with a man who was about to hand him twenty million dollars. William, of course, was ecstatic in his own shitty little way. What annoyed me, I think, was not his attitude toward me, or the fact that he had just made a fortune, but the fact that he shed not one tear for the passing of Stanhope Hall. Even I, who had come to hate the place, felt some nostalgia for it, and it hadn't been in my family for generations. William was still talking to his daughter. "Susan, I'm glad you got the stable moved – " "I paid for half of the moving of the stable."

William glanced at me, then turned back to his daughter and continued, "Bellarosa told me he wants to move the love temple to his property. He says this fellow of his, Dominic, who did your stable – " "You are a schmuck."

He looked at me in a funny sort of way. "Excuse me?" "You are an unprincipled asshole, an utterly cynical bastard, a monumental prick, and a conniving fuck."

Charlotte made a little choking sound. Susan continued eating her raspberries, with no apparent problem. William tried to say something, but only succeeded in going like this: "You… you… you… you…" I stood and poked William in the chest. "You, tightwad, pay for dinner." I touched Susan's arm. "You come with me."

She stood without a word and followed me out of the restaurant.

In the car on the way home, she said, "Can the love temple actually be moved?" "Yes, it's post and lintel construction. Sort of like building blocks. It has to be done carefully, but it's possible, and actually easier than the stable." "Interesting. I think I'd like to take some courses in building and architecture at Post. That would help me understand more fully what I paint, how it was built, the very soul of the structure, you know, the way Renaissance painters studied skeletons and muscle to paint those fantastic nudes. Perhaps that's all I'm lacking by way of becoming a great painter. What do you think?" "You may be right."

We pulled into the gates at Stanhope Hall. The gatehouse was dark, as Ethel was staying with her daughter awhile. Susan said, "I'm going to miss George very much."

"Me, too." I didn't bother to get out of the car and close the gates, since I intended to pass through them again in about five minutes. Susan, of course, noticed this and remained silent all the way to our house. I brought the Jag to the front door, and Susan looked at me.

A few seconds passed, then I said, "I'm not coming inside. I'll be back for my things tomorrow."

"Where are you going?"

"That is really not your concern."

She began to get out of the car, then turned back and said, "Please don't leave me tonight." She added, "But if you do, take your own car." She put out her hand and smiled. "Keys, please."

I shut off the Jag and gave her the keys. Susan unlocked the front door and we both went inside – I to the kitchen to get my own keys, she upstairs to go to bed. As I headed for the front door again, the phone rang and she answered it upstairs. I heard her say, "Yes, Dad, I'm fine."

I opened the door to leave, then heard her saying, "Well, but that must be what he thinks of you or he wouldn't have said it. John is very precise in his choice of words."

Though I don't like eavesdropping, I paused at the front door and heard her go on, "No, he will not apologize, and I won't apologize for him." Silence, then, "I'm sorry Mother is upset. Actually, I think John would have said more if she weren't there." Silence again, then, "All right, Dad, I'll speak to you tomorrow. Yes, Dad…" I called up the stairs, "Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer." I heard Susan say, "Hold on, Dad. John just said, and I quote, 'Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer.' Yes…" She called down to me, "Father says you're an ambulance chaser, an embarrassment to your father, and an incompetent."

"Tell him he's not half the man his father was, and the best part of him ran down Augustus's leg."

Susan said, "Dad, John says he disagrees with that. Good night." I heard her hang up. She called down to me, "Good night, John."

I headed up the stairs. "I need my overnight bag."

I went into our bedroom to get my bag out of the closet, and Susan, who must have been undressing as she spoke on the phone, was lying on top of the sheets, her legs crossed and reading a magazine, stark naked. Well, I mean, there's something about a naked woman, you know, and I was really feeling my oats and all, having just told William Stanhope what I thought of him, and there was his bitchy daughter, lying there stark naked. In some instinctive sort of way, I knew I had to ravish her to complete my victory. So I did. She seemed to enjoy it.

Now, a real primitive would have left afterward, to show his contempt for her and her whole clan. But I was pretty tired, and it was late, so I watched some TV and fell asleep.