graciously given his permission to move all or part of the structure to her ten acres, and Susan has picked a nice tree-shaded patch of land with a pond for her precious horsies. All that remains to be done is to engage the Herculean Task Stable Moving Company and a hundred slaves to complete the job. Susan says she'll split the cost with me. I have to look at that prenuptial agreement again.
I finished my apple juice and hooked my thumb in my belt, waiting for somebody to push a wheelbarrow full of faeces out the door. I found a piece of straw and stuck it between my teeth.
After a minute or so in this pose, I decided to stop being silly and just go in. But as I walked toward the main doors, a puff of hay flew out of the loft overhead and landed on me. It sounded as if they were having a hay fight. Good clean American fun. Pissed off beyond belief, I spun around, got into the Bronco, and slammed it into gear, Baking a tight U-turn in front of the main doors. I could hear Susan calling after me from the open loft as I drove right through the pile of manure in four-wheel drive.
That afternoon, after a rational discussion regarding my childishness, we put on our tennis whites and walked down to the courts to keep a tennis date. It was warm for April, and after a few volleys while we waited for the other couple, Susan took off her sweater and warm-up pants. I have to tell you, the woman looks exquisite in tennis clothes, and when she fishes around in her panties for the second ball, the men on the court lose their concentration for a minute or two.
Anyway, we volleyed for another ten minutes, and I was blasting balls all over the place, and Susan was telling me not to be hostile. Finally, she said, 'Look, John, don't blow this match. Calm down.'
'I'm calm.'
'If we win, I'll grant you any sexual favour you wish.'
'How about a roll in the hay?'
She laughed. 'You got it.'
We volleyed a bit longer, and I guess I did calm down a bit, because I was keeping the balls in the court. I was not, however, a happy man. It's often little things, like Susan's horsing around in the hay, that sets you off on a course that can be vengeful and destructive.
Anyway, our tennis partners, Jim and Sally Roosevelt, showed up. Jim is one of the Oyster Bay Roosevelts still living in the area. Roosevelts, Morgans, Vanderbilts, and such are sort of a local natural resource, self-renewable like pheasant and nearly as scarce. To have a Roosevelt or a pheasant on your property is an occasion of some pride; to have one or the other for dinner is, respectively, a social or culinary coup. Actually, Jim is just a regular guy with a famous name and a trust fund. More important, I can beat his pants off in tennis. Incidentally, we don't pronounce Roosevelt the way you've heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say Roozvelt, teeth clenched lockjaw style, two syllables, rhymes with 'Lou's belt.' Okay?
Sally Roosevelt was nee Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I'm certain that nearly all of Grace Lane's residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it. At about six P.M., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts. Jim said unnecessarily, 'I think someone is looking for you.' I excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court. 'Hello, Mr Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?'
'You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?' No, I didn't actually say that. I said, 'That's all right.'
He extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, 'I don't play tennis.' 'Neither do I,' I replied.
He laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humour, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.
Bellarosa was dressed in grey slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not tres chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewellery, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.
'It's a nice day,' said Mr Bellarosa with genuine delight. I could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I'll bet Mrs Bellarosa hadn't spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. 'Unusually warm for this time of year,' I agreed.
'Some place you got here,' he said.
'Thank you,' I replied.
'You been here long?'
'Three hundred years.'
'What's that?'
'I mean my family. But my wife's family built this place in 1906.'
'No kidding?'
'You can look it up.'
'Yeah.' He looked around. 'Some place.'
I regarded Mr Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, grey at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I'm six feet, so he was about average height. I'd say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere – court records, for instance.
He had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn't think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women find him attractive. Frank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. 'Your guy – what's his name…?'
'George.'
'Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn't interrupt your game.'
Mr Bellarosa's tone told me he wasn't happy with George. I replied, 'That's all right.' George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbour. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr Bellarosa. I asked, 'What can I do for you?'
'Nothing. Just wanted to say hello.'
'That's good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you.'
'Oh, yeah? Why?'
'Well… that's the way it's done.'
'Yeah? No one's stopped by yet.'
'Now that's odd. Perhaps no one is sure you're there.' This conversation was getting weird, so I said, 'Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown.'
'Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on.' He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed. Bellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George's body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. 'Here. I bought too much. You really don't have a vegetable garden?' 'No.' I looked at the plastic tray. 'I guess I do now.' He smiled. 'Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don't know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?'
'Well… slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash -' 'What?'
'Glacial… silty, pebbly in places – '
'All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables.
You'll thank me in August.'
