Bellarosa. I mean, there was a time when I wanted to see him in jail… maybe even dead. But I had mixed feelings about that now, the way I do when a shark is hooked. You hate the shark, you fear the shark, but after about two hours, you respect the shark.
I heard his voice interrupting my thoughts. 'So you understand?'
I nodded.
He went on. 'We should be out of the courthouse before they break for lunch. I don't want lunch in the holding cell. Then you and me go have a nice lunch someplace. Maybe Gaffe Roma. That's near the court. I gotta make you try fried squid. So around that time, Alphonse Ferragamo is holding one of his fucking press conferences. He's skipping lunch so he can make the late editions and the five-o'clock news. Right? He's announcing my indictment, my arrest, and all that shit. He wants to announce that I'm in jail, too, but that ain't gonna happen, so he has to eat a little shit from the press people and from his boss in Washington. But basically, he's a happy man, and he's going to fuck his girlfriend that afternoon, then go home and have a party. So we'll hang around town awhile, get a hotel room, watch the news, get some newspapers, have a few friends over. You can make a few statements to the press, too, but not too much. And remind me to call my wife. Oh, yeah, it would be nice if your wife could go over to my place about eight, nine in the morning and sit with my wife. You know how wives get about this shit. Well, maybe you don't. But I can tell you, they don't handle it too good. So your wife can kinda keep Anna's mind off things, maybe until her stupid relatives get out to my place and they can all hang around crying and cooking. Okay? But don't mention any of this to your wife yet. Capisce? And try to be around for the next two, three weeks. You going on vacation or anything?'
'I guess not.'
'Good. Stick around. Get lots of sleep on Monday nights. All right? Practise what you're gonna say in court. Get your brass balls on for the fucking Feds. We're gonna look good in court.' He looked at me. 'No jail, Counsellor. No jail.
That's what I promised you, that's what you promise me. You understand?'
'I promise I will do my best.'
'Good.' He stood and slapped me on the shoulder. 'Hey, I got another problem. In Brooklyn, I got tomatoes the size of bull balls. Here it is the middle of July, and I got these small green things. But I see you got nice big ones, and those are the plants I gave you. Remember? So the soil must be different. I'm not embarrassed or anything, but this is hard to understand. So what I want is to trade you some of your tomatoes for something. I got lots of string beans. Okay? Deal?'
I don't like string beans, but we shook on it.
CHAPTER 23
Some days after the Fox Point powwow, I was up at the yacht club doing light maintenance on the Morgan. It was a weekday morning, and I was playing hooky from work, as usual. My partners had not commented directly on my extended absences, partly because they expect it in the summer, but also because they assume I am conscientious and would not let the firm down. In fact, they were wrong; my work was piling up, calls went unanswered, and the Locust Valley office had no one at the helm. People work better unsupervised anyway. Though I enjoy tinkering around the boat, I enjoy sailing it more. But with a sailboat, you really should have at least two people aboard, and it's sometimes difficult to find a crew during the workday. Carolyn and Edward were gone, of course, and Susan is only moderately enthusiastic about sailing, as I am about riding, and she begged off. There are friends who might be around during the week, but I'd been avoiding people lately. One can always rustle up a few college kids to crew, but in some irrational way, because I missed my own children, I didn't feel like having other kids around. So, today, I contented myself with putting my boat in order.
I was aware of leather-soled footsteps coming toward me on the pier. It was low tide, so I had to look up from the deck and squint into the morning sun to see who it was. Whoever it was, he was wearing a suit. He stopped and said, 'Permission to come aboard.'
'Not in those shoes.'
So Mr Mancuso, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, dutifully removed his shoes, then jumped down onto the teak deck in his stocking feet. 'Good morning,' he said.
'Buon giorno,' I replied.
He smiled with his big Chiclets. 'I'm here to bring some aggravation and worry into your life.'
'I'm already married.' That was a pretty good one, and he smiled wider. He wasn't a laugher, but he did appreciate my wit. He was on the right track. He said, 'Do you have a few minutes?'
'For my country, Mr Mancuso, I have nothing but time. However, I'm out of money and short on patience.' I went about my business, which, at that moment, was coiling some half-inch line.
Mr Mancuso set his shoes down on the deck and watched me a moment, then looked around. 'Nice boat.'
'Thank you.'
'Nice place.' He waved his arm around, encompassing the whole club. 'First-class operation.'
'We try.' I finished with the line and regarded Mr Mancuso a moment. He was as sallow as when I'd last seen him in April. He wore a light-beige suit of summer wool, which was well cut, a good shirt and tie, and, as I was about to see clearly, very nice socks. However, the frizzy fringe of hair and the woolly tuft still amused me.
He said, 'You want to talk here, Mr Sutter? You feel comfortable here? You want to go inside the boat? Someplace else?'
'How long is a few minutes?'
'Maybe half an hour. Hour.'
I considered a moment, then asked him, 'You sail?'
'No.'
'You do now. You probably won't need that tie and jacket.' 'Probably not.' He took off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that held a big automatic, perhaps a Browning.
I glanced around at the nearby boats, then said to him, 'Maybe you want to stow that below. You know, inside the boat.' I pointed. 'That's called below.' 'Sure.' He ducked down the companionway and reappeared a few minutes later, tieless and barefoot now, his cuffs and shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked even more ludicrous. I stood at the helm and started the engine. 'You know how to cast off?'
'Sure. I can do that.'
And he did. Within a few minutes we were under way. The Morgan's helm is a spoked mahogany wheel, and I stood there at it, feeling in control of something for a change. I would have preferred to be under sail, but with Mancuso as my crew I thought I'd better let the engine take us clear of the moored boats and shoals.
I took the Paumanok around Plum Point into Cold Spring Harbor, still under power, and pointed the bow north toward the Sound, then slowed the engine. Still at the helm I said to Mr Mancuso, 'See that winch? Crank that and it will raise the mainsail.'
He did as he was told and the mainsail went up. A light breeze caught it, and the Paumanok moved through the water. I cut the engine and told him how to trim the sail, then I got him to raise the jib, and we started to make some headway. Poor Mr Mancuso was scrambling all over the decks in his good wool trousers, which, I'm afraid, were ruined. All in all, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I was happy for this unexpected opportunity to sail. Mr Mancuso, of course, wanted to speak to me about something, but for the time being he seemed content to have been shanghaied aboard the Paumanok. Mr Mancuso was a fast learner, at least as far as terminology, and within an hour, he knew a boom from a spreader, the headstay from the backstay, and presumably his ass from his elbow.
As I said, the wind was light, but it was from the south and got us well out into the Sound. About three miles off Lloyd's Neck, I showed him how to lower the sails. The wind was still southerly and the tide was ebbing, so we drifted safely away from the shore and shallow water. Still, I returned to the helm and played captain. I asked Mr Mancuso, 'Did you enjoy that?' 'Yes. I really did.'
'It's more fun at night with high winds and heavy seas. Especially if your engine conks.'
'Why is that, Mr Sutter?'
'Because you think you're going to-die.'
