'Yeah. Who else you talk to?'
'Fat Paulie. Some other people. I didn't catch many names.'
'Yeah? You meet my brother-in-law?'
'Sort of.' I added, 'He's in my bedroom now with five other men.'
Bellarosa said nothing.
We continued looking out into the summer night, and I was reminded of the night on his balcony. He offered me a cigar and I took it. He lit it with a gold lighter, and I blew smoke out the window. He said to me, 'You understand what's happening here?'
'I think I do.'
'Yeah. We got a long, hard fight ahead of us, Counsellor. But we won round one today.'
'Yes. By the way, I'd like my fifty dollars back.'
'What?'
'I heard about your snitch in Ferragamo's office.'
'Yeah? From who?'
'Doesn't matter who.'
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a fifty, which I took. He said, 'Wanna make another bet?'
'What's the bet?'
'I bet that's the last time you catch me cheating.' He laughed and slapped me on the back.
So we puffed away on the Monte Cristos, then he said to me, 'A lot of these goombahs think you're magic or something. Capisce? They respect your world. They think you people still hold the power in your hands. Maybe you do. Maybe it's slipping away. Maybe if the Italians and the Anglos could somehow get together, we could get New York back. Maybe get this country back.' I didn't reply, because I couldn't tell if he was serious, joking, or crazy. He said, 'Anyway, you have this… what do you call it…? This like aura, you know, around you, like you are connected to powerful sources. That's what they said on television. That's what a lot of these goombahs believe.' 'You sure got your fifty thousand worth.'
He laughed. 'Yeah.'
'You understand, I hope, that I have no such power. I'm socially and financially connected, but not politically connected at all.'
He shrugged. 'So what? That's between us.'
'All right. I 'm going to bed. Can I kick your brother-in-law out of my room?' 'Later. We'll wait up for the bulldog editions. I can get the Post and the Daily News hot off the press in about half an hour. I got people waiting for them now.' He asked me, 'Hey, you call your wife?'
'No. Did you call yours?'
'Yeah, she called before. She's okay. She said to tell you hello. She likes you.'
'She's a nice woman. A good wife.'
'Yeah, but she drives me nuts with her worrying. Women. Madonn'.' He let a second or two pass, then said, 'Maybe it's good that we get away from them for a few days. You know? They appreciate you more when you're gone awhile.' I wondered if Anna appreciated her husband more after he returned from two years in a federal penitentiary. Maybe she did. Maybe if I got nailed on a perjury rap and went away for five years, Susan would really appreciate me. Maybe not. At about midnight, with about a dozen people left in the suite, two men arrived within a few minutes of each other, each carrying a stack of newspapers. One had the Post, the ink still wet on it, and the other, the Daily News. They threw the papers on the coffee table.
I read the Post headline: GOTCHA, FRANK. The Post is not subtle. Beneath the headline was a full-page photo of Frank Bellarosa being led down a corridor of the Federal Court in cuffs, with Mancuso holding his arm. I learned from the caption that Mr Mancuso's first name was Felix, which explained a lot. It was obvious that despite the prohibition against cameras in the courthouse, Ferragamo had arranged for the daily newspapers to have photo opportunities during the time that Bellarosa was in cuffs. A picture is worth a thousand words, and maybe as many votes when November rolled around. Bellarosa picked up one of the copies of the Post and studied the photo. 'I'm taller than Mancuso. You see? Ferragamo likes to have big FBI guys around the guy in cuffs. He don't like Mancuso for a lot of reasons. Plus the guy's short.' He laughed.
The remaining men in the room, including me, Frank, Lenny, Vinnie, Sally Da-da and two of his goons, and a few other soldier types each took or shared the newspapers. I picked up a copy of the Daily News, whose headline read: BELLAROSA ON MURDER CHARGE.
Again, there was a full-page photo, this one of Bellarosa holding his cuffed hands up, clenched together like a victorious prizefighter. The caption read:
Frank Bellarosa, reputed boss of New York's largest crime family, taken into custody in Federal Court yesterday morning. I held the newspaper up for Bellarosa. 'You'll like this shot.'
He took the paper. 'Yeah. Good picture. I remember that one.'
Vinnie said, 'You look good, boss.'
Lenny nodded. 'Yeah. Nice shots, boss.'
Everyone else added their congratulations on a fine photo, cuffs notwithstanding. I wondered if Frank Bellarosa got tired of full-time sycophants.
I did notice that Sally Da-da was not adding his congratulations, but was reading the News. I did not like this man, and he knew it. And he did not like me, and I knew it, so it sort of balanced out. But aside from not liking him, I didn't trust him.
I opened the Daily News to a byline story and saw a small photo of Frank and a man who looked vaguely familiar. The caption read: Bellarosa leaving courtroom with Attorney John Suffer. Ah. I thought he looked familiar. Bellarosa was reading the Post. He said, 'Hey, listen to this.' He read, ''In a move that surprised and even shocked veteran court observers, Bellarosa showed up at the arraignment with blue-blood lawyer John Sutter of Lattingtown, Long Island.'' Bellarosa looked at me. 'You really got blue blood?' 'Of course I have.'
He laughed and went back to the story and read, ''Sutter is the husband of Susan Stanhope Sutter, heiress daughter of a socially prominent Gold Coast family.'' He looked up at me again. 'Does that mean your wife's got blue blood, too?' 'Absolutely.'
Bellarosa scanned the article and said, 'They got a lot of shit here on you, Counsellor. Your law firm, your clubs, all that stuff.'
'That's nice.'
'Yeah? Where do you think they got all that shit so fast? Your pal Mancuso and scumbag Alphonse. Right? They're really trying to stick it up your ass.' And doing a rather nice job of it, I should say. Oh, well, what did I expect? When people like me step out of bounds, the government is right there to pounce, and the press eats it up. There are unwritten rules in this society, too, just like in Bellarosa's society, and if you break the unwritten rules, you won't get your bones broken, but you'll get your life broken.
I looked again at the Daily News article and found my name. Here's what the article did not say: 'John Sutter is a good man, an okay husband, and a fairly good father. He served honourably in the U.S. Army, and is active in conservation efforts. He contributes thousands of dollars to charity, is a generous employer, and plays a good game of golf.'
Here is what the article did say: 'Sutter himself has been under investigation by the IRS for criminal tax fraud.'
I thought I'd solved that problem. I guess it was a matter of verb tenses. Has been. Had been. Journalese was interesting. It was an art form. I wondered if I should write a letter to the editor or begin a lawsuit. Probably neither. I poured myself a scotch and soda, and without wishing my fellow revellers good-night, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I saw my suitcase on the luggage rack and opened it. Susan had risen to the occasion and had done a nice job. She had packed my toilet kit, a grey suit, and a blue suit of summer-weight wool. There were matching ties and pocket handkerchiefs and dress shirts. There was also enough underwear for about two weeks, which might have been a subtle hint.
As I unpacked, I saw an envelope with my name on it and opened it. It was a 'Dear John' letter from Susan, which didn't surprise me since my name is John. But I'm being flip. As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I read the letter, and here's what it said:
Dear John,
You looked marvellous on television, though I'm not certain about the green tie with the blue suit. Or was the
