Nelson DeMille - The Gate House

He lit up and said, “The boss says no smokin’ in the car.”

“Good rule.” The SUV, I now noticed, had the Cadillac logo on the hubs, and the word “Escalade” on the front door. There was an American flag decal on the side window. If I could see the rear bumper, I’m sure the bumper stickers would say, “Suburban Mafia,” and “My kid can kill your honor student.”

Tony took a drag, then returned to his subject, saying, “You can’t fuckin’ smoke no place no more.”

It’s been a while since I’ve heard compound double negatives interspersed with the F-word, and I actually smiled.

Tony, by the way, was dressed in running shoes and the aforementioned black sweatsuit ensemble. Frank Bellarosa would have fired him on the spot. Or fired at him.

Interestingly, Tony sported an American flag pin on his warmup jacket, which at first surprised me, then did not. The Mafia always considered themselves loyal and patriotic Americans.

“So,” Tony inquired, “how’s Mrs. Sutta?”

“I have no idea.”

I should mention that Susan was a favorite with the late don’s goons, and she in turn found them exotic or something, including their totally whorish girlfriends. I didn’t share her fascination with these characters, and she called me a snob. I’m quite certain that Tony had changed his opinion of Mrs. Sutter after she capped the don.

“You ain’t seen her?”

I didn’t like him asking about her, and I replied, “No. All right, good seeing you-”

“Hey. Those were the days. Right?”

“Right.”

“You, me, the don, God rest his soul, that scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, and Vinnie, God rest his soul.”

A scorecard would show three dead and two living. The don, God rest his soul, had been killed by you-know-who, and Vinnie, God rest his soul, had his head blown off with a shotgun, and scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, was Frank’s driver, and also the guy who dropped a dime on Frank, resulting in the Saturday night shoot-out at Giulio’s in Little Italy. Lenny had sped off with the two hit men in Frank’s stretch Caddy, but he was later found by the police in the car’s trunk at Newark Airport with a garrote around his neck – which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that these people played for keeps, and could not be trusted.

I said to Tony, “Those were the days.”

“Yeah. Hey, remember that morning when the Feds came for the boss? That little wop, Mancuso. Remember that?”

The gentleman in question was FBI Special Agent Felix Mancuso, with whom I’d had some prior conversations about me working for Frank Bellarosa, and who, despite that fact, liked me. Mr. Mancuso had shown up at Alhambra to arrest don Frank Bellarosa for the murder of the Colombian drug lord, and Frank knew this was coming, so I was there as his attorney, and Lenny and Vinnie were there to look tough, and Tony, I recalled, was in the Alhambra gatehouse. Felix Mancuso had come alone, without an army of agents, to show Frank Bellarosa that his balls were at least as big as Frank’s. But before Mancuso put the cuffs on Frank, he took me aside and tried to save my soul, telling me to get my life together and get away from Bellarosa before it was too late. Good advice, but it was already too late.

And here I stood now, at the threshold of perhaps another great folly, and I realized I could choose not to walk into Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.

Tony said, “Hey, I’m keepin’ ya. Go ’head. Third booth on the right.”

I turned and walked toward the restaurant.

Third booth on the right.

Wong Lee’s hadn’t changed much in ten years, or in thirty years, for that matter, and the décor could best be described as 1970s Chinese restaurant.

Anthony was sitting facing the door, as is customary for men in his profession. He had good lines of sight and fields of fire, except for his rear, which seemed unsecured, unless there was another goombah back there somewhere.

He was talking on his cell phone, holding it in his left hand, so that his right hand was free to nibble fried wontons or pull his gun.

Well, maybe I’m overanalyzing his choice of seating; I mean, it’s a Chinese restaurant in a suburban town, for goodness’ sake. Did you ever see a headline saying, Mafia Boss Hit in Chinese Restaurant?

On the other hand, based on Anthony’s cautious behavior in front of the gatehouse, it was very possible that he knew he was on somebody’s clip list. And I’m having dinner with this guy? You would think I should have learned my lesson at Giulio’s.

Anthony had seen me as soon as I opened the door, and he was smiling and waving his free gun hand as he kept talking. He was wearing another version of the awful shirt he’d had on the other night, but this time he wore an electric blue sports jacket over it.

The hostess noticed we were paesanos , and escorted me to the booth saying, “You sit with your friend.”

Then why am I being seated here ?

Anthony was still chatting, but he stuck out his hand and we shook. He said into the phone, “Okay… okay… I’m sorry… yeah… okay…”

Wife or mother.

He continued, “Yeah… he’s here, Ma. He wants to say hello… yeah… here… Ma… Ma…” He covered the mouthpiece and said to me, “You know why Italian mothers make great parole officers? They never let anyone finish a sentence.” He handed me the phone and said, “My mother wants to say hello.”

I hate when people hand me a phone to say hello to someone I don’t want to say hello to, but I liked Anna Bellarosa, so I put the phone to my ear and heard her say, “All the Italian restaurants in Glen Cove, and you take him to the Chinks? You don’t think , Tony. Your father knew how to think . You-”

“Anna, hi, this is-”

“Who’s this?”

“John Sutter. How are you?”

“John! Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you. Oh my God. John, how are you?”

“I’m-”

“Tony says you look great.”

“Anthony.”

“Who?”

“Your son-”

“ Tony . Tony says he saw you the other night. He says you’re living here now.”

“Well, I-”

“Why don’t you go to Stanco’s? Why are you eating at the Chinks?”

“Chinese was my idea. So, you’re back in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah. In the old neighborhood. Williamsburg. Since Frank… oh my God, John. Do you believe he’s dead?”

Actually, yes.

“It’s ten years, John, ten years since my Frank…” She let out a sigh, followed by a little sob, caught her breath, then continued, “Nothing is the same without Frank.”

That’s good news.

She went into a brief eulogy of her deceased husband, which sounded well-practiced, emphasizing his qualities as a father, and said, “The boys miss him. In a few weeks is Father’s Day, John. The boys take me to the cemetery every Father’s Day. They cry at his grave.”

“It must be very sad for them.”

She let me know how sad it was. She didn’t say anything specific about Frank as a perfect husband, but neither did she say anything negative, of course, nor would she ever.

The last time I’d seen her was at Frank’s funeral, and she hadn’t looked good in black with mascara running down her face. In fact, though, she’d been an attractive woman in a fertility goddess sort of way – full-bodied, big-busted, good skin under the makeup, big eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. I wondered what ten years and widowhood had done to her.

As Anna prattled on, I glanced at Anthony, who seemed to have tuned out and was absently stirring his beverage, which looked and smelled like a Scotch on the rocks. I got his attention and motioned to his drink. He nodded and summoned the waitress.