Nelson Demille - Gold Coast

Actually I didn't want to be his lawyer anymore, or his friend or his alibi. I could have told him that a few days ago, but since his arraignment it had become vastly more complicated for me to cut ties to him. As a lawyer, and therefore an officer of the court, what I had said in court was perjury even though I hadn't been under oath. And as a lawyer, if I recanted what I'd said, I'd probably be facing disbarment, not to mention a bullet in the head. There was, of course, this other side to being made an honorary Italian. It wasn't all wine and rigatoni, it was also omerta – silence – and it was us against them, and it was some sort of unspoken oath of loyalty that I must have taken, accepting Frank Bellarosa as my don. Mamma mia, this shouldn't happen to a High Episcopalian. Bellarosa impaled a hunk of cheese on the point of the knife and held it under my nose. "Here. You make me nervous when you watch me eat. Mangia." I took the cheese and bit into it. It wasn't bad, but it stunk.

Bellarosa watched me with satisfaction. "Good?"

"Molto bene." Not only were we partners in crime, but we were beginning to talk and smell the same.

After a few minutes of silence, he said to me, "Hey, I know you're pissed about some things, you know, things that you think I did to you, like the Melzer thing. But like I told you once, sometimes you can't get even. Sometimes you got to take the hit and be happy you're still on your feet. Then the next time you're a little tougher and a little smarter."

"Thank you, Frank. I didn't realize all you've done for me."

"Yeah, you did."

"Don't do me any more favours. Okay?"

"Okay. But here's some more free advice. Don't do me those kinds of favours, either. You don't talk to people like that reporter broad, and you don't even think about ways to even up the score. I'm telling you that for your own good. Because I like you, and I don't want to see nothing happen to you." "Look, Frank, I 'm not into vendetta like you are. I took the hit and I learned my lesson as you said. But if I was into revenge for the Melzer thing and for those other things, I guarantee you, you wouldn't even see it coming. So we let bygones be bygones, and we finish out our business, and we part friends. Capisce?"

He looked at me a long time, then said, "Yeah, you're smart enough to take a shot at me, but you ain't tough enough."

"Fuck me again and we'll find out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I could tell he wasn't real happy with me, but he thought about it and said, "Well, I'm not going to fuck you again, so we'll never find out. Okay?" "Sure."

He put out his hand and I took it. We shook, but I wasn't sure what we were shaking on, and I don't think he knew either. Neither did he believe me that I wasn't looking for revenge, and I didn't believe that he wouldn't screw me again the first time it was in his interest to do so.

Anyway, as we approached the expressway exit to Lattingtown, Bellarosa said in a tone of conciliation, "Hey, come on over for dinner tonight. We got lots of food. Anna invited a bunch of people over. All relatives. No businesspeople." "Are we related?"

"No, but it's an honour to be invited to a family thing."

"Thank you," I said noncommittally.

"Good. Susan, too. I think Anna talked to her already." He added, "Hey, I got an idea. Let's make this the picture party. Everybody's going to be there who I want to see the picture. Let's do that."

I had the distinct impression everybody knew about this already. In polite suburban society, this would be a sort of friendly ruse to get a couple back together again. But Frank Bellarosa had all sorts of other angles as usual. He said, "Your wife will be the guest of honour. That okay with you?" Well, the prospect of spending an evening at an Italian family homecoming party for a Mafia don with my estranged wife as the guest of honour was not that appealing, as you may conclude.

"Okay? See you about six."

Vinnie suddenly burst out laughing and slid back the Plexiglas. He looked at me.

"Burned his mouth on the tail pipe. I get it."

I should have taken the train home.

The convoy turned into Stanhope Hall and proceeded up the gravel drive of Bellarosa's newly acquired fiefdom until we reached the little enclave of Susan Stanhope, where I bid my felonious friends good-day and carried my suitcase up to the front door.

Susan's Jaguar was out front, but with horse people that doesn't necessarily mean anyone is at home, and as I entered the house, it had that empty feeling about it. So the joyful reunion was postponed.

I went to my den and erased twenty-six messages on my answering machine, then took a stack of faxes and burned them in the fireplace unread. I did go through my mail because I respect handwritten letters. There was only one of those, however, a letter from Emily, which I put aside. Everything else turned out to be business mail, bills, ads, and assorted junk, which I also burned.

I sat down and read Emily's letter:

Dear John,

Where in the name of God did you get that horrid tie? I kept adjusting the colour on my TV, but the tie didn't go with the suit unless your face was green. And I see you still don't carry a pocket comb. I saw that Spanish woman -

Alvarez, I think – on the affiliate station here, and she hates you or loves you. Find out which. Gary and I are fine. Come on down. Soon!

Love, Sis

I put the letter in my desk drawer and went into the kitchen. We have a family message centre, formerly known as a bulletin board, but the only message on it said, Zanzibar, vet, Tuesday A.M. Fuck Zanzibar. He can't even read, and he's not allowed in the kitchen anyway.

I carried my suitcase upstairs and entered the former master bedroom, now called the mistress bedroom, and threw my suitcase in the corner. I changed into jeans, Docksides, and T-shirt and went into the bathroom. My mouth still smelled of that cheese, so I gargled with mint mouthwash, but it didn't do any good. The stuff was in my blood.

I left the house and got into my Bronco, which I had trouble starting after it had sat idle for a while. George Allard was indeed dead. The engine finally turned over, and I headed down the driveway. I was on my way to go see my boat, but as I approached the gatehouse, Ethel stepped out of the door and stood in the drive, wearing her Sunday flower dress. I stopped the Bronco and got out. "Hello, Ethel."

"Hello, Mr Sutter."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," she replied.

"You look well." Actually she didn't, but I'm pretty easy on recent widows, orphans, and the severely handicapped.

She said to me, "It's not my place to say this, Mr Sutter, but I think the press is treating you unfairly."

Was this Ethel Allard? Did she use that George-ism "it's not my place to say this"? Obviously this woman was possessed by the ghost of her husband. I replied, That's very good of you to think so, Mrs Allard." "This must be very trying for you, sir."

I think my eyes moved heavenward to see if George was up there smiling. I said to Ethel, "I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you regarding unwanted visitors."

"That's all right, sir. That's my job."

Really? "Nevertheless, I do appreciate your patience. I'm afraid this might go on for some time."

She nodded, actually sort of bowed her head the way George used to do to show he'd heard and understood. This was a little spooky, so I said, "Well, you take care of yourself." I moved back toward the Bronco.

She informed me, "Mrs Sutter and I went to church this morning."

"How nice."

"She said you might be coming home today."

"Yes."

"She asked me to tell you if I saw you that she will be on the property this afternoon. She may be tending her garden or riding or at the stables. She asked that you look for her." Ethel added hesitantly, "She hasn't seemed herself the last few days."