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
