Nelson Demille - Gold Coast

"About three weeks."

"I'll do what I can."

It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many million-dollar houses are built, there is an inexhaustible supply of buyers. Who are these people? And where do they get their money?

Lester Remsen and I discussed the skeet-shooting problem. According to yesterday's Long Island Newsday, a judge issued a temporary restraining order stopping the shoot, notwithstanding the fact that the shooting has been going on for more than half a century before the plaintiff bought his house or was even born. But I can see the other point of view. There is population pressure on the land, and there are noise and safety considerations to be taken into account. No one hunts deer or pheasant around here anymore, and the Meadowbrook Hunt Club, in its last days, had to plan a trickier route each year, lest the horses and hounds wind up charging through new suburban backyards or a shopping mall. Talk about terrorizing new residents.

I know that we are fighting a rearguard action here to protect a way of life that should have ended twenty or thirty years ago. I understand this, and I'm not bitter. I'm just amazed that we've gotten away with it this long. In that respect I say God bless America, land of evolution and not revolution. Susan said, "Can't you put silencers on the shotguns?"

"Silencers are illegal," I informed her.

"Why?"

"So gangsters can't get ahold of them," I explained, "and murder people quietly."

"Oh, I bet I know where you could get hold of a silencer." She smiled mischievously.

Lester Remsen looked at her.

"Anyway," I continued, "half the fun is the noise."

Lester Remsen agreed and asked Susan where in the world she could get a silencer.

Susan glanced at me and saw this was not the time to bring up the subject. She said, "Just joking."

The club dining room was full for Sunday dinner. The clubs around here, you should understand, are the fortresses in the fight against the Visigoths and Huns who are sweeping over the land and camping out around the great estates in cedar and glass tents that go up in less time than it takes to polish the marble floors of Stanhope Hall. All right, that was a bit snooty, but one does get tired of seeing these stark, skylighted contemporaries reproducing themselves like viruses everywhere one looks.

As for the clubs, there are many types: country clubs, yachting clubs, riding clubs, and so forth. I have two clubs: The Creek, a country club, which is where we were having dinner with the Remsens, and The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, whose first commodore was William K. Vanderbilt. I keep my boat, a thirty-six-foot Morgan, anchored at the yacht club.

The Creek is what the media like to call "very exclusive,", which sounds redundant, and a "private preserve of the rich," which sounds judgemental. It isn't true anyway. Rich counts around here, no doubt about it. But it doesn't count for everything the way it does with the new rich. To fully understand what is sometimes called the Eastern Establishment is to understand that you can be poor and even be a Democrat and be accepted in a place like The Creek if you have the right family background, the right school, and know the right people. Remsen and I, as I said, are not rich, but we breezed through the membership committee interview right out of college, which is usually the best time to apply, before you screw up your life or wind up working in the garment industry. In truth, one's accent helps, too. I have what I guess you'd call an East Coast preppie accent, being a product of St Thomas Aquinas on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, St Paul's in New Hampshire, and Yale. That's a good accent to have. But there is a more predominant accent around here, which is known (nationally as I've discovered) as Locust Valley Lockjaw. This condition usually afflicts women, but men often display strong symptoms. With Locust Valley Lockjaw, one has the ability to speak in complete and mostly understandable sentences – including words with lots of broad vowels – and to do so without opening one's mouth, sort of like a ventriloquist. It's quite a trick, and Susan can do it really well when she's with her bitchy friends. I mean, you can be having a drink on the club patio, for instance, and watch four of them sitting around a nearby table, and it looks as if they're silently sneering at one another, but then you hear words, whole sentences. I never get over it. The Creek itself, named after Frost Creek, which runs through the north end of the property on the Long Island Sound, was originally an estate. There are about a dozen other country and golf clubs around here, but only one other that counts, and that is Piping Rock. Piping Rock is considered more exclusive than The Creek, and I suppose it is, as its membership list more closely matches the Social Register than does The Creek's. But they don't have skeet shooting. Though maybe we don't either. Susan, incidentally, is listed in the Social Register as are her parents, who still officially maintain a residence at Stanhope Hall. In my opinion, the Register is a dangerous document to have floating around in case there is a revolution. I wouldn't want Ethel Allard to have a copy of it. I have a John Deere cap that I plan to wear if the mob ever breaks through the gates of Stanhope Hall. I'll stand in front of my house and call out, "We got th's here place already! Main house is up the drive!" But Ethel would give me away.

Susan looked up from her raspberries and asked Lester, "Do you know anything about anyone moving into Alhambra?"

"No," Lester replied, "I was going to ask you. I hear there have been trucks and equipment going in and out of there for over a month." Judy Remsen interjected, "No one has seen a moving van yet, but Edna DePauw says she sees furniture delivery trucks going in about once a week. Do you think anyone has moved in yet?"

Susan glanced at me, then said to the Remsens, "John ran into the new owner yesterday at Hicks'."

Lester looked at me expectantly.

I put down my coffee cup. "A man named Frank Bellarosa." There was a moment of silence, then Judy said contemplatively, "That name sounds familiar…" She turned to Lester, who was looking at me to see if I was joking. Lester finally asked, "The Frank Bellarosa?"

"Yes."

Lester didn't respond for a while, probably waiting for his stomach to unknot, then cleared his throat and asked, "Did you speak to him?" "Yes. Nice chap, actually."

"Well, he may have been with you, but -"

Judy finally connected the name. "The gangster! The Mafia boss!"

A few heads at other tables turned towards us.

"Yes," I replied.

"Here? I mean, next door to you?"

"Yes."

Lester asked, "How do you feel about that?"

I thought a moment and made a truthful reply. "I'd rather have one gangster next door than fifty nouveau-riche stockbrokers with their screaming kids, lawn mowers, and smoking barbecues." Which, when I said it aloud, made sense. Only I wish I hadn't said it aloud. No telling how it would be misinterpreted or misquoted as it made the rounds.

Lester Remsen looked at me, then went back to his apple pie. Judy spoke to Susan without opening her mouth. "Would you pass the cream?" Susan replied without so much as a throat flutter – I think the sound came out of her nose – "Of course, dear."

I caught Susan's eye, and she winked at me, which made me feel better. I didn't feel sorry for what I'd said, but I wished I had remembered that Lester is a stockbroker.

The problems were beginning.

The following week passed without incident. I went to my law office in Locust Valley on Monday, then commuted by train to my Manhattan office on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday found me back in Locust Valley. I follow this schedule whenever I can as it gives me just enough of the city to make me a Wall Street lawyer, but not so much as to put me solidly into the commuting class. I am a partner in my father's firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. The firm is defined as small, old, Wasp, Wall Street, carriage trade, and so on. You get the idea. The Manhattan office is located in the prestigious J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and our clientele are mostly wealthy individuals, not firms. The office's decor, which has not changed much since the 1920s, is what I call Wasp squalor, reeking of rancid lemon polish, deteriorating leather, pipe tobacco, and respectability.