He smiled. "You see why I pay my lawyers so much?" Speaking of which, I hadn't seen a nickel from him so far, but I wasn't going to bring it up. I did say, however, "I'd like you to explain to me why I was fired." He shrugged. "I don't know. Lots of reasons. What did Jack tell you?"
"Not much. He just said I caught a break and I should be thrilled. This is true. He also said he would call me as your alibi witness if you wind up standing trial for murder. That is not so thrilling."
"Yeah. Well, we'll see." He added, "The Feds don't like you. So I did them a little favour and let you go."
That's interesting. And what favour are they doing you in return?" He didn't reply, but said, "That don't mean we can't still be friends. In fact, we're better off as just friends and neighbours. Right?"
"I suppose. Am I still an honorary Italian?"
He laughed. "Sure. Hey, better yet, I'm making you an honorary Napoletano. You know why? Because you stood there and flipped that guy the bird when he was thinking about putting you away."
How in the name of God could he know that? But I knew better than to ask. Bellarosa was getting himself into a lighter mood and he said, "Hey, you still fucking that Alvarez broad or what?"
"I'm a married man."
He smiled.
I said, "She did tell me that the word on the street is that your brother-in-law still had a contract out on you. And you let your wife sleep there?" "One's got nothing to do with the other."
I guess I still didn't understand Italian family relationships. I tried to imagine a situation where Susan went to stay with relatives who were trying to kill me. Actually, something like that happens every time she goes to Hilton Head. But William Pecker head only wants me dead; he's too cheap to hire anyone to do the job. I said to Bellarosa, "Sally sent you flowers. Does he come here and visit you?"
He didn't answer the question directly, but said, "The guy's a Sicilian. The Sicilians have this expression: You hold your friends close, but your enemies closer. Capisce?"
"I do, but I think you're all nuts. I am not nuts, Frank. You are all nuts."
He shrugged.
I asked him, "Do they pay the two guys for a near miss?" He smiled. "They can keep the half they got up front. They don't get the other half." He added, "I woulda done it different."
"How so?"
He replied as though he'd thought this out. "Well, the shotguns were all right to knock people down and fuck up everybody's mind. You know? But you gotta finish the guy you're after with a bullet in the head, because lots of guys wear a vest now. Right?"
"Techniques vary, I'm sure. Hey, Frank, how come you were wearing a vest and not me?"
"I told you, you're a civilian. Don't worry about it. Hey, you want a vest? I'll give you one of mine." He laughed.
There was a knock on the door, and an FBI guy came in followed by Filomena, who was carrying a tray. I stood to help her, but she made it clear I was in her way, so I sat down. There aren't many women whose appearance would be improved by a beard, but Filomena was one of them.
She put a tray on the table and poured two cups of coffee. Frank said something to her in Italian, and she said something back to him, and they were at it again. While they argued about whatever, she fixed his coffee with cream and sugar and buttered a biscuit for him. I could tell, despite the arguing, that there was affection between the two. I said to Bellarosa, "Tell her I like her." He smiled and spoke to Filomena in Italian.
She looked at me and made a sort of grunt, then snapped something at me. Bellarosa translated, "She said you have a beautiful wife and you should behave." He added, "Italian women think when you give them a compliment, you want to fuck them. They think all men are pigs."
"They're right."
Filomena gave me a glance and left.
I had some coffee, but I noticed that Bellarosa ignored his and ignored the biscuits. I said to him, "Frank, I'm not here to do the government's work, but I have to tell you, you should put on your Machiavellian thinking cap and consider what's good for you and your wife and your sons." I added, "I tell you this because I like you."
He seemed to be actually thinking about that, then replied, "I'll tell you something, Counsellor, things are different now. Twenty years ago, nobody talked to the DA or the Feds. Now you got guys who want it both ways. They want to make the money, live the life, then they get into a little trouble with the law, and they don't want to do a little time. You know? So they sing. They don't understand that you got to be ready to do twenty years when you get into this business or you don't get into this business. But now they all have middle-class ambitions, these men. They want to sleep with their wives and girlfriends every night, see their kids off to school, play golf even. In my uncle's day, a man did his twenty years without a fucking peep, and he came out and his wife hugged him, his children kissed his hand, and his partners filled him in on the latest. Understand? But who's got that kind of balls today? So the fucking U.S. Attorney offers deals. But I don't make deals with Feds to save my own ass. My friends should've understood that. They should understand that Frank Bellarosa is not a fucking rat like half of them are. You know what I learned at La Salle? You lead by example. You don't compromise your honour. If this thing, this organization, it going to go on, then I got to show everybody how to make it go on. I got to set the example even if they tried to kill me, and even if I'm surrounded now by Feds. That's balls, Counsellor. Balls. Capisce?"
Indeed I did. Misplaced balls, but balls nonetheless."Capisco." He smiled. "Yeah. Hey, the organization may be a little fucked up these days, but you can't say they don't still have some class and style. They left you standing, didn't they?"
I replied, "They understand bad press, too. Hitting you is one thing, hitting me is another."
"Yeah. We still get good press. We want good press. We need good press. The melanzane and the Spanish shoot everybody, then they wonder why nobody likes them. Right?"
"Techniques vary, as I said."
"Yeah, but those assholes don't have any technique."
I really didn't want to debate the merits of competing criminal organizations. But Bellarosa had a point of sorts. To wit: Even if Sally Da-da wanted me dead because I annoyed him, he knew that killing me was not good press and not good business. So Gentleman John Sutter walked through blood and fire with nothing more than a ruined suit and tie, protected by an aura of perceived power and impeccable social credentials. No blue blood on the sidewalks of Little Italy. No wonder Frank didn't think I needed a bulletproof vest. Just the same, I would have preferred to be wearing one when the goombah pointed the gun at me. I regarded Bellarosa a moment. Though his face looked drawn and his frame looked somehow diminished to me, his paunch was trying to get out of his bathrobe. Truly, getting hit by three 8-gauge shotgun blasts, even when wearing a vest, was not good for one's health. Seeing him there, a physical wreck, I couldn't help but wonder if his mental state hadn't deteriorated as well. I mean, he seemed okay, but there was something different. Maybe it was the Feds in the house. That would depress anyone.
He asked me to get him a bottle of sambuca, which was hidden behind some books on a shelf, and I found it. I also saw a vase of freshly picked marigolds on the shelf, big yellow marigolds of the type George and I planted at Stanhope Hall. Interesting.
I gave him the bottle, and he poured a good shot of it into his coffee cup and drank it, then poured another. "You want some?"
"It's a little early."
"Yeah." He said, "That bitch of a nurse won't let me drink. Because of the antibiotics I'm taking. Shit, the fucking sambuca is an antibiotic. Right? Here, put this back."
I put the bottle behind the books. My, how things had changed at Alhambra. Now I was depressed. I looked at my watch as if I had to leave. He saw me and said, "Sit down a minute. I gotta tell you something." He motioned me by his side and said, "Sit here on this hassock." He jerked his thumb at the ceiling, which I took to mean the place might be bugged.