was glad for this little incident, for it assured me that Frank Bellarosa was who and what Alphonse Ferragamo said he was. And like most sociopaths, Mr Bellarosa had a short fuse and was liable to go from laughing to explosive violence in about one second. Even Susan, I saw, who found Bellarosa charming, interesting, and all that, was a bit taken aback. Frank realized he should not have bared his fangs in human company and explained with a wave of the hand, 'Italians eat their salad after the main course. Cleans the palate. I guess that guy didn't know that.'
I guess he does now, Frank.
Frank ate his salad.
After about fifteen minutes, everybody forgot or made believe they forgot that Frank had forgotten his manners. In fact, Frank went out of his way to be nice to Richard, explaining about the salad, making a few dumb jokes about Italian waiters, and generally assuring Richard that he could move about the table freely without fear of losing a body part. Richard dropped a dish nevertheless. We ordered coffee and dessert, and Frank ordered four glasses of marsala wine, explaining to Richard that Italians often had marsala with or before dessert, sometimes with cheese. Richard, who didn't give a shit, pretended to be fascinated.
The meal ended happily, without bloodshed or further incident, except that Frank insisted on paying even after I explained that no money could be used in the club. Finally, frustrated in his attempt to make amends with me, he shoved some bills in Richard's waistcoat pocket.
The truly inebriated never know when to quit, so we retired to a small study for liqueurs. A sleepy cocktail waitress glanced at her watch in preparation for telling us it was too late, then noticed Frank Bellarosa, who I knew had been pointed out to her at some time during the evening. She smiled and asked, 'What can I get for you?'
Frank took it upon himself to order for everyone. 'Sambuca, and you got to put three beans in each glass for good luck. Got it?'
'Yes, sir.' She hurried off.
Frank offered me a cigar and I took it. We lit up and smoked. The cordials came with a whole plate of coffee beans so we could make our own luck. Frank said, 'I got to take you two to a little place down on Mott Street. Little Italy, you know? A place called Giulio's. I'll teach you how to eat Italian.' I asked, 'Do we need bulletproof vests?'
You never know with a guy like Bellarosa what he's going to find funny. Susan sort of chuckled. Anna seemed sad. But Frank laughed. 'Nah. They give you them when you sit. Like bibs.'
We finished our cordials and I stood unsteadily. 'They want to close up here.'
Frank sprung out of his chair. 'Come on back to my place.' Susan accepted simultaneous to my declining. We're usually pretty much in sync when it comes to things like this, and we can communicate with a glance. But clearly we weren't on the same wavelength this evening. I said to Susan, 'I have a busy day tomorrow. You can go if you wish.'
'I guess I'll go home.'
Frank seemed neither disappointed nor relieved, though Anna looked at me in an odd way, almost as if she and I were simpatico, and the other two were nuts. Susan and Anna had arrived in Frank's Cadillac, driven by the wheelman/bodyguard, and Susan and I accepted Frank's invitation to be driven home, as we were both somewhat impaired.
We staggered out into the balmy night, and Frank's car quickly pulled up to us as if the driver, out of force of habit, thought we'd just robbed the place. We all squeezed into the backseat, which people who don't know each other well won't usually do if they're stone sober. Somehow, the order of seating turned out to be Susan, Frank, Anna, and me. The car pulled away and we all swayed and laughed. It was really tight, given Anna's ample hips, and so it seemed natural that Susan wound up half on Bellarosa's lap. Anna, for her part, seemed embarrassed if not actually panicky about the proximity of her right thigh and breast to my left thigh and arm, respectively. It didn't matter what was going on to her immediate left. Amazing.
Anyway, we laughed and joked, and it was all very silly, typical middle-aged suburbanites having alcoholic fun that in the morning would be embarrassing if you were stupid enough to think about it.
The driver, a man whom Frank called Lenny, actually checked us out in his rearview mirror and even glanced over his shoulder at me once. Lenny was a smirker, and I wanted to bash my fist in his idiotic young face, or tell Frank to put a bullet in the back of his head.
Anyway, Lenny seemed to know the way, pulling right through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, and without hesitation finding his way along the unlighted road to our house. Interesting. Lenny got out and opened Susan's door, helping her off Bellarosa's knee and onto the ground. I exited without help, unless you count Anna rearranging her hips, which inadvertently propelled me out the door. Susan and I waved good-bye to the black windows of the Bellarosas' Cadillac, then went inside and climbed the stairs to our bedroom. We undressed and fell into bed. Susan and I both sleep au naturel all year round, which means the honeymoon is not over, and gives our young, Hispanic laundress something to talk about, i.e., 'I no wash no nightgowns or pyjamas at Stanhope Hall, but mi Dios, those sheets!'
Anyway, on the same subject, Susan reached over and grabbed me, finding, I'm afraid, not even four fingers' worth of John. I informed her, 'I've had too much to drink.'
Susan does not take that as a rejection, but as a challenge. In fact, once she gets going she could make my tie hard.
'Pretend,' she said, 'that I'm Anna Bellarosa, and we swapped spouses for the night.'
'Okay.' There was a distinct physical difference between Susan and Anna, so I had to pretend real hard. Susan switched off the lamp to facilitate this. She said, 'I'm with Frank now, in the back of his car, and we're getting out of our clothes as the chauffeur is driving us around.'
I didn't like that image, but a part of me must have because I felt that part getting harder in Susan's hand, and she giggled. 'See?' she said. 'There you go.' She added, 'And you're going to fuck Anna Bellarosa now. She's never been with any man except her husband, and she's shy, terrified, but excited. And you know she's going to love how you do it to her, and you're wondering how and when you're going to return her to her husband, and when he's going to give me back to you, and what we're all going to say to one another.' My goodness, what an imagination this woman had. And she knows what turns me on, which can be a little uncomfortable for me. I mean, now that I thought about it, the idea of wife-swapping had briefly crossed my fuzzy mind on the way home in the car.
Anyway, there I was on my back, with Susan's hand cupped around my penis which was rising like an ICBM out of its silo. I heard her say, 'Oh, my God, John, you're bigger than Frank.'
'What?'
She said in a Brooklyn accent, 'I can't get alia this insida me. Please don't put it in me. My husband will kill me for this. He'll kill you.' 'He's fucking Susan right now,' I pointed out. 'Your husband is fucking my wife.'
She said, 'I am betraying my husband. God forgive me.' I replied, 'I'm just having sex.' I rolled over on top of her and brought her legs over my shoulders. 'What are you doing?' she cried. 'What are you going to do?' I thrust myself inside her and she let out a startled sound. As I made love to her, she moaned, sobbed, then settled down and began to enjoy herself. Between deep breaths, she gasped a few words in Italian which I didn't understand, but they sounded sexy and raunchy.
Well, look, I mean, we're a little kinky, okay? But we knew where to draw the line and always had. But this time, for some reason, I had the feeling that we'd gone beyond the bounds of our game. Fantasy was one thing, but bringing people like the Bellarosas into our bedroom was dangerous. What was happening to us? Afterwards, as we lay on the bed, uncustomarily separated by a few feet of sheets, Susan said, 'I think we should go away. On vacation.' 'Together?'
She let a few seconds go by, then replied, 'Of course. We have to get out of here, John. Now. Before it's too late.'
I didn't feel like asking what she meant by too late. I answered, 'I can't go now. There's too much happening.'
She didn't say anything for a long time, then replied, 'Don't forget I asked.' And to be fair to her even in light of what happened, I'll never forget that she asked.
