But he was in no mood for my wit. Neither was I, to tell you the truth.
I inquired, "How is my client doing?"
"Alive, but not very well, I'm afraid. Lots of blood loss, and they're talking about possible brain impairment."
I didn't reply.
Mr Mancuso and I spoke in private for ten or fifteen minutes, and I levelled with him, and he believed me that I knew absolutely nothing more than what I'd told the NYPD, and that I really hadn't been able to identify any of the mug shots or the faces on the slides. I did suggest, however, that Mr Lenny Patrelli was part of the conspiracy.
He replied, "We know that. The limo was found parked out by Newark Airport and Patrelli's body was in the trunk."
"How awful."
Mr Mancuso looked at me. "You could have been killed, you know."
"I know."
He said, "They still may decide to kill you."
"They may."
"Do you think they're nice guys because they left you alive? Are you grateful?"
"I was. But it's wearing off."
"Do you want federal protection?"
"No, I have enough problems. I really don't think I'm on the hit list."
"You weren't, but you may be now. You saw their faces."
"But that's not what we're telling the press, are we, Mr Mancuso?" "No, but the guys who did the hit know you saw them up close, Mr Sutter. They probably didn't figure you would be that close to them or to Bellarosa, and they couldn't be sure who you were. Pros don't hit people they're not told to hit or paid to hit. You could have been a cop for all they knew, or a priest in civvies. So they let you stand rather than get in trouble with the guys who ordered the job. But now we have a different situation." He looked at me closely.
I said, "I'm really not too concerned. Those guys were pros as you said, and they're from someplace else, Mr Mancuso. They're long, long gone, and I wouldn't be too surprised if they turned up in a trunk, too."
"You're a cool customer, Mr Sutter."
"No, I'm a realistic man, Mr Mancuso. Please don't try to scare me. I'm scared enough."
He nodded. "Okay." Then he made eye contact with me and said, "But I told you, didn't I? I told you no good would come of this. I told you. Correct?" "Correct. And I told you, Mr Mancuso, what Alphonse Ferragamo was up to. Didn't I? So if you want to find another accessory to this attempted murder, go talk to him."
Poor Mr Mancuso, he looked sleepy and sad and really disgusted. He said, "I hate this. This killing."
I informed Saint Felix that I didn't care much for it either. And on the subject of mortality, I also informed him, "I stink of blood. I'm leaving." "All right. I'll drive you. Where do you want to go?"
I thought a moment and replied, "Plaza Hotel."
"No, you want to go home."
Maybe he was right. "Okay. Do you mind?"
"No."
So, after some NYPD formalities, including a promise by me not to leave town, we left Midtown South and got into Mr Mancuso's government-issued vehicle and went through the Midtown Tunnel, heading east on the expressway. The sun was coming up and it was a beautiful morning.
Mr Mancuso and I must have had a simultaneous thought because he asked me, "Are you happy to be alive?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm glad to hear that."
So was I. I asked him, "How is Mrs Bellarosa?"
"She looked all right when I saw her a few hours ago." He asked me, "And Mrs Sutter? Was she very upset?"
"She seemed composed when I last saw her."
"These things sometimes have a delayed reaction. You should keep an eye on her."
I should have kept an eye on her since April, and I think that's what he meant.
"She's a strong woman."
"Good."
We made small talk as we headed into the rising sun, and to his credit, he wasn't taking the opportunity to pump me about this or that, and so I didn't bug him about Ferragamo again.
Whatever we were talking about must have been boring because I fell asleep and awoke only when he poked me as we drove up Stanhope Hall's gates, which Susan had left open. Mancuso drove up to the guesthouse and I got out of the car and mumbled my thanks to him. He said, "We'll keep an eye on the place. We're here anyway."
"Right."
"Do you want this sketch? Is this supposed to be you?"
"Keep it." I stumbled out of the car, staggered to the door, and let myself in. On the way up the stairs, I peeled off my bloody clothes and left them strewn on the steps where Lady Stanhope could deal with the mess. I arrived at the guest bathroom stark naked (except for my Yale ring) and took a shower sitting down. Madonn', what a lousy night.
I went into my little room and fell into bed. I lay there staring up at the ceiling as the morning sun came in the window. I heard Susan in the hallway, then heard her on the stairs. It sounded as if she was gathering up the clothes. A few minutes later there was a knock on my door and I said, "Come in." Susan entered, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a glass of orange juice. "Drink this," she said.
I took the orange juice and drank it, though I had a stomach full of coffee acid.
She said, "The policeman who drove me home said you were a lucky man."
"I'm definitely on a lucky streak. Tomorrow I'm going skydiving."
"Well, you know what he meant." She added, "I'm lucky to have you home."
I didn't reply, and she stood there awhile, then finally asked me, "Is he dead?"
"No. But he's critical."
She nodded.
"How do you feel about that?" I inquired.
She replied, "I don't know." She added, "Maybe you did the right thing."
"Time will tell." I informed her, "I'm tired."
"I'll let you get some sleep. Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"No, thank you."
"Sleep well." She left and closed the door behind her.
As I lay there, I had this unsettling feeling that I had done the right thing, but for the wrong reason. I mean, my instinct as a human being was to save a life. But my intellect told me that the world would be well rid of Mr Frank Bellarosa. Especially this part of the world.
But I had saved his life, and I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was the right thing to do. But really, I had done it because I wanted him to suffer, to be humiliated knowing he was the target of his own people, and to face the judgement of society, not the judgement of the scum that had no legal or moral right to end anyone's life, including the life of one of their own. Also, I wanted my piece of him.
But while I was telling myself the truth, I admitted that I still liked the guy. I mean, we had clicked right from the beginning. And if Frank Bellarosa had any conscious thoughts at that moment, he was thinking about what a good pal I was to stop him from bleeding to death. Mamma mia, we should have had pizza delivered.
Well, trying to clear your head and your conscience at the same time is pretty exhausting, so I tuned in to a fantasy about Linda the sketch artist and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 35
The tough son of a bitch survived, of course, thanks mostly to my Eagle Scout and army first-aid skills. The press had made a big deal about my saving Bellarosa's life, and one of those inane inquiring-photographer pieces in a tabloid asked: Would you save the life of a dying Mafia boss? All six respondents said yes, going on about humanity and Christianity and all that. Sally Da-da might have had a slightly different opinion if asked, and I sort of suspected he was pissed off at me.
Anyway, it was mid-October now, Columbus Day to be precise, and perhaps that had something to do with my deciding to pay a call on Mr Frank Bellarosa, who had been discharged from the hospital about two weeks before and was convalescing at Alhambra.