We drank awhile, and the nice little chicken dish came, and it was enough to feed half the dining room in The Creek. Bellarosa spooned the stuff onto two plates. 'This is called pollo scarpariello. Say it.'
'Pollo… scarp…'
'Scarpariello. Chicken, shoemaker style. Maybe a shoemaker invented it. Maybe they make it with old shoes.'
I turned over a piece of meat with my fork. 'What part of the chicken is that?' 'That's sausage. You make it with sausage, too. It's sauteed in oil and garlic, with mushrooms.'
'That does sound light.'
'Eat it. Here, try this. This is escarole with more oil and garlic. The garlic gets that pussy smell outa your mouth. Here. You got to try everything.' I called the waiter over. 'Bring me a bottle of that water with the bubbles in it and a glass of ice.'
'Yes, sir.'
He brought a green bottle of Pellegrino, and I made a mental note of it for the future. I poured and drank three glasses of the sparkling water while Frank ate the chicken and sausage.
It was nearly three-thirty but the place was not completely empty. Frank's four friends had left, but a few old men sat around with coffee and newspapers. Two old guys were actually snoozing. Vinnie and Lenny were still drinking coffee and smoking.
The door opened, and I instinctively tensed. A man entered, about fifty years old, wearing a dark grey suit and sunglasses. Behind him was a younger man whose eyes darted around the tables. I poked Bellarosa's arm and he followed my gaze to the door. I glanced at Vinnie and Lenny and saw they were on the case. The two men who had come in were aware of Bellarosa's bodyguards and didn't make any abrupt movements, but just stood there near the front door looking at Bellarosa and me. The waiters stood still, staring at their shoes. The few old men in the place gave the two intruders a glance, then went back to their coffee and newspapers.
Frank stood and stepped away from the table, and the man with the sunglasses took them off and came toward Bellarosa. They met in the middle of the restaurant and embraced, but I could see it was more a demonstration of respect than affection.
Frank and his buddy sat at an empty table. The man's partner, or bodyguard or whatever, took a seat with Vinnie and Lenny at their suggestion. I turned my attention back to Bellarosa and his paesano. If you watched these people long enough, you could figure out the pecking order. Whereas Frank the Bishop Bellarosa seemed to have no peers this side of Augustus Caesar, this man who had just come in was close. The man had lit Bellarosa's cigarette, but he did it in such a way as to suggest that he didn't like doing it and might not do it again. Bellarosa, for his part, purposely blew smoke at the man. They were both smiling, but I wouldn't want anyone to smile at me like that. The conversation lasted five minutes, then the man patted Bellarosa's shoulder as if he were congratulating him on getting out of the slammer. They both stood, embraced again, and the man left with his friend. The waiters reappeared. I relaxed a bit, but I noticed that Lenny and Vinnie had their eyes glued to the door.
Frank sat down across from me. 'That was a guy who used to work for me.'
'The guy whose bones you broke?'
'No. Another guy.'
'He looked familiar. Is his picture in the papers sometimes?'
'Sometimes.'
I could see that Frank Bellarosa was a bit distracted. Obviously, that man had said something that upset my client. But whatever it was, I would probably never know about it.
It was apparent to me, however, that don Bellarosa was doing some politicking, some public relations on his own behalf, and that he had more personal appearances to make. I had the sense, too, that this was galling to him, but he was going to do it just the same. He might not compromise or make deals with the law or with blacks or Hispanics or with women. But he had to deal with his own kind, and he had to do it with just the right balance of force and respect. Bellarosa seemed to have come out of his pensive mood and he said to me, 'Hey, you drink cappuccino, espresso, or American?'
'American.'
He signalled a waiter and gave an order. The coffee came and behind it was a man carrying a tray of pastry. Mamma mia, I couldn't even swallow my own saliva anymore. But good old Frank, playing both host and waiter, insisted on describing each of the pastries before asking me to pick two for myself. There was no use declining, so I picked two, and he told me I didn't want those two and picked two others for me.
I nibbled at the pastry, which was good enough to find room for, and I also got my coffee down. We chatted with Patsy, with Lucio and his wife, and with a few of the waiters. Everyone seemed happy that the meal was coming to a bloodless conclusion. Patsy smiled at me. 'You like everything?' 'Very good.'
'You come back for dinner. Okay?'
'Sure will.'
Lucio and his wife were not smooth like Patsy, but I tried to draw them out.
'How long have you owned this place?'
Lucio replied, 'It was my father's restaurant, and his father's restaurant.'
'Your grandfather was Giulio?'
'Yes. He came from the other side and opened his restaurant, right here.' He pointed to the floor.
'In what year?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe 1900.'
I nodded. A real slick entrepreneur would have made the most of that: Giulio's; family-owned on Mott Street since 1899. (The last century always sounds better.) But I had the impression that Lucio was concerned only with the day's fare and his customers' satisfaction a meal at a time. Maybe that's why he was successful, like his father and his father's father.
The chef came out, complete with apron and chef's hat, which he removed prior to bowing to the don. Good Lord, you would have thought Bellarosa was a movie star or nobility. Actually, he was even more important than that; he was mafioso, and these people, mostly from Sicily and Naples, I suspected, had good ancestral memories.
We chatted a minute longer. They all could not have been friendlier, but nevertheless I felt a bit out of place, though not uncomfortable. Lucio and company could tell, of course, that I was an important person, but not an important Italian person. I felt actually like an American tourist in Italy. Frank stood and I stood, and the chairs were pulled away for us. Everyone was grinning wider as they held their breaths. A minute more and they could all collapse on the floor.
I realized that the only thing missing from this meal was the bill. But then Frank took a wad of cash from his pants pocket and began throwing fifties around the table. He hit the chef with a fifty, Patsy with a fifty, and three waiters with a fifty each. He even called over two young busboys and slipped them each a tenner. The man knew how to take care of people. We all bid each other buon giorno and ciao.
Lenny was already gone, and Vinnie was outside checking the street. I saw Lenny pull the Cadillac up in front of the restaurant, and Vinnie opened the rear car door while we were still inside the restaurant. Vinnie motioned through the glass door, and it was only then that Bellarosa exited the restaurant. I was right behind him but not too close. He slid into the backseat and I got in beside him. Vinnie jumped into the front and Lenny pulled quickly away. And this guy wanted to take the wives here? Get serious, Frank. But maybe he was just taking normal precautions. I mean, maybe even when peace reigned in the regions of the underworld, Frank Bellarosa was just a careful man. Maybe I would take Susan here with the Bellarosas. Couldn't hurt. Right? We travelled south on Mott Street, which is one-way like all of the narrow streets in the old part of Manhattan. Frank said to Lenny, 'Plaza Hotel.' Lenny cut west on Canal and swung north on Mulberry, driving through the heart of Little Italy. Bellarosa stared out the window awhile, recharging his Italian psyche. I wasn't sure, but I suspected that he did not walk these streets freely; that, like a celebrity, he saw most of the world through tinted car-windows. Somehow I felt sorry for him.
He turned to me and said, 'I've been thinking. Maybe you had enough of this shit.'
Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. I didn't reply.
He went on, 'You did what I needed you to do. You got me sprung. You know? Jack Weinstein can take over from here. He knows how to deal with those scumbags in the U.S. Attorney's office.'
