Nelson DeMille: The Gate House

“Right.” I didn’t think the dead don’s driver had much to say about that deal. Regarding the family business, the surviving employees, and the rules of succession, I recalled quite clearly that there was another member of the family who wanted Frank Bellarosa’s job, so, to see how Anthony reacted, I asked, “How is your uncle Sal?”

Anthony Bellarosa stared at me and did not reply. I stared back.

The last time I’d seen Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, was at Frank’s funeral. Prior to my wife clipping Frank Bellarosa, someone else had attempted the same thing, and the prime suspect was Uncle Sal. This had occurred at a restaurant in Little Italy, at which I was unfortunately present and close enough to Dandy Don Bellarosa and Vinnie, his bodyguard, to get splattered with Vinnie’s blood. Not one of my better nights out.

In any case, Uncle Sal was not present at the failed hit, of course, but his signature was most probably on the contract. I hate it when families squabble, and though I’m personally familiar with the problem, none of the Sutters or Stanhopes, to the best of my knowledge, have ever taken out a contract on a family member… though it’s not a bad idea. In fact, I think I just found some use for Anthony Bellarosa. Just kidding. Really.

Anthony finally replied, “He’s okay.”

“Good. Give your uncle Sal my regards when you see him.”

“Yeah.”

There are some things in life that you never forget, and those months during the spring and summer leading up to Frank’s death in October and my leaving Susan are filled with sights and sounds that are truly burned into my mind forever. In addition to seeing Vinnie’s head blown off with a shotgun right in front of my face, another sight that I will never forget is of young Anthony Bellarosa at his father’s graveside. The boy held up extremely well – better than his mother, Anna, who was wailing and fainting every few minutes – and in Anthony’s eyes I could see something beyond grief, and I saw him staring at his uncle Sal with such intensity that the older man could not hold eye contact with his young nephew. It was obvious to me, and to everyone, that the boy knew that his uncle had tried to kill his father. It was also obvious that Anthony Bellarosa would someday settle the score. So I was surprised to discover that Uncle Sal was still alive and well – and that Uncle Sal hadn’t killed Anthony yet.

These gentlemen, however, as I’d learned in my brief association with don Bellarosa and his extended family, were extremely patient and prudent when considering who needed to be whacked, and when.

On that subject, I wondered how Anthony felt about Susan Sutter, who’d succeeded where Uncle Sal had failed. Now that Susan was back – about four hundred yards from here, actually – I wondered… but maybe that was a subject best left alone, so I stuck to family chatter and asked Anthony, “How is your mother?”

“She’s good. Back in Brooklyn.” He added, “I’ll tell her I saw you.”

“Please pass on my regards.”

“Yeah. She liked you.”

“The feeling was mutual.” Hanging over this conversation, of course, was the awkward fact that my then-wife had made Anna Bellarosa a widow, and made Anthony and his two brothers fatherless. I asked, “And your brothers? Frankie and Tommy, right?”

“Right. They’re doing good.” He asked me, “How about your kids?”

“They’re doing fine,” I replied.

“Good. I remember them. Smart kids.”

“Thank you.”

The road that passes by Stanhope Hall and Alhambra, Grace Lane, is private and dead ends at the Long Island Sound, so Anthony Bellarosa was not just passing through, and I had the thought that he still lived in this area, which was not a good thought, but I wanted to know, so I asked him, “Where are you living?”

He replied, “On my father’s old estate.” He added, “There’s some houses built there now, and I bought one of them.” He explained, “They’re called Alhambra Estates. Five-acre zoning.”

I didn’t reply, but I recalled that as part of Frank’s stay-out-of-jail deal with the government, he’d had to forfeit Alhambra for unpaid taxes on illegal earnings and/or for criminal penalties. The last time I was on the property after Frank’s death, the magnificent villa had been bulldozed, and the acreage had been subdivided into building plots to maximize the income to the government, and also for spite.

I’d actually driven past the former estate a few times since I’d been back, and I’d caught a glimpse of the new houses through the wrought-iron gates, and what I saw were mini-Alhambras with red-tiled roofs and stucco walls, as though the rubble of the main mansion had regenerated into small copies of itself. I wondered if the reflecting pool and the statue of Neptune had survived.

Anyway, I now discovered that Anthony Bellarosa had purchased one of these tract villas. I wasn’t sure if this was ironic, symbolic, or maybe Anthony had simply gotten a good deal from the builder, Dominic, who was a paesano of Frank’s.

Anthony seemed to be brooding about his lost patrimony and informed me, “The fucking Feds stole the property.”

It annoys me when people (like my ex-wife) rewrite history, especially if I was present at the historical moment in question. Anthony, however, may not have actually known the circumstances surrounding his lost birthright, but he could certainly guess if he had half a brain and a willingness to face the facts.

Apparently, he had neither of these things, and he continued, “The fucking Feds stole the property and put my family out on the street.”

Against my better judgment, I informed Anthony, “Your father gave Alhambra to the government.”

“Yeah. They put a gun to his head, and he gave it to them.”

I should have just ended his unannounced visit, but he had a few more points to make, and I was… well, maybe worried about Susan. I mean, she was still the mother of my children. I looked closely at Anthony. He didn’t look like a killer, but neither did his father. Neither did Susan for that matter. I’ll bet Frank was surprised when she pulled the gun and popped off three rounds.

Anthony was expanding on his subject and said, “They used the fucking RICO law and grabbed everything they could get their hands on after he… died.” Anthony then gave me a historical parallel. “Like the Roman emperors did when a nobleman died. They accused him of something and grabbed his land.”

I never actually thought of Frank Bellarosa as a Roman nobleman, but I could see the Justice Department and the IRS in the role of a greedy and powerful emperor. Nevertheless, I lost my patience and informed him, “The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act is tough, and not always fairly applied, but-”

“It sucks. What happened to due process?”

“Do you have a law degree, Mr. Bellarosa?”

“No. But-”

“Well, I do. But let’s forget the law here. I happen to know, firsthand, that your father agreed to hand over certain assets to the Justice Department in exchange for…” I could see that Anthony Bellarosa knew where this was going, and he did not want to hear that his father had broken the only law that counted – the law of omertà – silence.

So, under the category of speaking only well of the dead, I said to Anthony, “Your father owed some back taxes… I was his tax advisor… and he settled for turning over some assets to the Treasury Department, including, unfortunately, Alhambra.” Frank had also forfeited this property, Stanhope Hall, which he’d purchased, I think at Susan’s urging, from my idiot father-in-law William. But I wasn’t sure Anthony knew about that, and I didn’t want to get him more worked up, so I just said, “It wasn’t a bad deal.”