closely, watch closely, keep your hands still, your face frozen, and say very little. You're a Wasp. You can do that.'
'Right. I think I figured that out already.'
'Good. Anyway, I'm glad you were ready to go this morning. You know, usually the State Attorney General and sometimes even the U.S. Attorney will make an arrangement so that they don't have to come and arrest a man like Bellarosa at his home, or on the street or in a public place. You understand, when you have a middle-aged man with money and ties, the prosecutor can work something out with the guy's attorney. A voluntary surrender. But sometimes these bastards get nasty, like when they arrested those Wall Street characters in their own offices and marched them out in cuffs. That was bullshit.'
I shrugged. There were two ways of looking at that, depending on if you were watching it on TV or if you had the cuffs on.
Weinstein said, 'We were pretty sure they'd come for Frank on a Tuesday, so when our snitch rang me last night and let me know it was on for seven this morning, I wasn't too surprised.'
'What snitch?'
'In Ferragamo's office… oh… forget where you heard that.' 'Sure.' I thought a moment. That son of a bitch cheated me out of fifty bucks. I couldn't believe it. Here was a guy who threw fifty-dollar bills around, who offered me exorbitant fees for doing very little, and he screws me out of fifty bucks. Obviously, it wasn't the money, it was his obsessive need to win, and to impress people. And this was also the guy who gave me his alibi two minutes before he was arrested, then told me to forget it while making it clear to me he didn't intend to spend one day in jail. This guy was slick. Weinstein said, 'See what I mean? I figured you knew about that. You can't figure these people, John. And they say Jews are tricky. Hell, this guy… well, enough of that.'
I inquired, 'Is he in any real danger? I ask that because I don't want to get caught in the crossfire, and I don't mean that figuratively.' Again Weinstein glanced around, then said, 'The Hispanic gentlemen will never get to him, and really don't want to get to him themselves, because that will cause them many problems. This is fine, because they tend to be indiscriminate with their submachine guns. However' – his eyes travelled around the crowded room as he spoke – 'someone here can and will get to him if they smell weakness, if they think he is more of a liability than an asset.' He added, 'Think of a school of hungry sharks, and think of the biggest shark with a wound that leaves a trail of blood in the water. How long does that big shark have? Understand?' I nodded.
'It's not that they don't like him,' Weinstein said, 'or that he hasn't done his job. But that's history. They want to know about today and tomorrow. The bottom line with these people, Counsellor, is keeping out of jail and making money.' 'No,' I informed him, 'keeping out of jail and making money are the subtotals.
The bottom line with these people is respect. Appearances. Balls. Capisce?' He smiled and patted my cheek affectionately. 'I stand corrected. You learn fast.' He said, 'Give me a call when you get some time. We have a few things to discuss. We'll have lunch.'
'Any place but Little Italy.'
He laughed, turned, and greeted someone in Italian. They hugged but didn't kiss.
That would be me in a year or so if I wasn't careful.
A very short and very fat man came up to me, and his stomach hit me before I could back away. He said, 'Hey, I know you. You work for Jimmy, right? Jimmy Lip. Right?'
'Right?'
He stuck out his fat, sweaty hand. 'Paulie.'
We shook and I said, 'Johnny. Johnny Sutta.'
'Yeah. You're Aniello's godson, right?'
'That's right.'
'How's he doin'?'
'Very good.'
'The cancer ain't killed him yet?'
'Uh… no…'
'He's a tough son of a bitch. You see him at Eddie Loulou's funeral last month?
You there?'
'Of course.'
'Yeah. Aniello walks in, half his face gone, and the fucking widow almost drops dead in the coffin with Eddie.' He laughed and so did I. Ha, ha, ha. He asked me, 'You see that?'
'I heard about it when I got there.'
'Yeah. Jesus, why don't he wear a scarf or something?'
'I'll mention it to him when we have lunch.'
We talked for a few more minutes. I'm usually good at cocktail party chatter, but it was hard to find things in common with Paulie, especially since he thought I was someone else. I asked him, 'Do you play golf?' 'Golf? No. Why?'
'It's a very relaxing game.'
'Yeah? You wanna relax? What for? You relax when you get old. When you're dead.
What's Jimmy doin' with himself?'
'Same old shit.'
'Yeah? He better watch his ass. None of my business, but if I was him, I'd lay off the chinks for a while. You know?'
'I told him that.'
'Yeah? Good. You can push the chinks so far, you know, but if you keep leanin' on them, they're gonna get their little yellow balls in an uproar. Jimmy should know that.'
'He should.'
'Yeah. Hey, tell Jimmy that Paulie said hello.'
'Sure will.'
'Remind him about the place on Canal Street we got to look at.'
'I will.'
Paulie waddled off and bumped into someone else. I took a few steps toward the bar and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see a large gentleman whose features looked Cro-Magnon. He asked me, 'What's Fat Paulie talkin' to you about?'
'Usual shit.'
'What's the usual shit?'
'Who wants to know?'
'Hey, pal, if you don't know who I am, you better fucking ask around.' 'Okay.' I moved to the bar and poured myself a sambuca. How, I wondered indignantly, could anyone here mistake me, John Whitman Sutter, for one of them? I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror. I still looked the same. But maybe my breath still smelled of puttanesca sauce and garlic. Anyway, I asked a young man at the bar, 'Who is that?' I cocked my head toward the Cro-Magnon gentleman.
He looked at the man, then at me. 'You don't know who that is? Whaddaya from Chicago or Mars?'
'I forgot my glasses.'
'Yeah? If you don't know who that is, you don't gotta know.'
This sounded like Italian haiku, so I dropped the subject. 'Play golf?'
'Nah.' The young man leaned toward me and whispered, 'That's Sally Da-da.' 'Right.' Now I had three Sallys in my life: Sally Grace; Sally of the Stardust Diner; and a gentleman who, if I recalled Mancuso correctly, was born Salvatore with a whole last name, but who had apparently not mastered much speech beyond the high-chair stage. How's little Sally? Da-da-da. Sally want ba-ba? I said, 'That's the Bishop's brother-in-law.'
'Yeah. Sally is the husband of the Bishop's wife's sister. What's her name?'
'Anna.'
'No, the fucking sister.'
'Maria, right?'
'Yeah… no… whatever. Why you asking about Sally Da-da?'
'He told me to ask around about him.'
'Yeah? Why?'
