Bellarosa said to the U.S. Attorney, "I'm sorry you're pissed off, but you should just think about it. Okay?… Yeah. I'll do that. Catch you on TV tonight, right?" Bellarosa laughed. "Yeah. Okay. See ya." He hung up and went back to his newspaper.
Madonna mia. These people were crazy. I mean, it was as if they were playing at being Americans in public, but between themselves some sort of ancient ritual was taking place.
No one spoke for a while, then Bellarosa looked up from his paper and asked his boys, "Okay?"
Lenny replied, "I never spotted nobody, boss."
Bellarosa glanced at his watch, then asked me, "You hungry?"
"No."
"You need a drink?"
"Yes."
"Good. I got just the place." He said to Lenny, "Drive over to Mott Street.
We'll get a little lunch."
Gaffe Roma is a fairly famous spot in the heart of Little Italy. I'd been there a few times for dinner with out-of-towers. But it wasn't on Mott Street. I said to Bellarosa, "Mulberry Street."
"What?"
"Caffe Roma is on Mulberry Street."
"Oh, yeah. We're not going there. We're going to Giulio's on Mott Street."
I shrugged.
He saw that I didn't appreciate the significance of what he was saying, so he gave me a lesson. "Something else you got to remember, Counsellor – what you say you're doing and what you're doing don't have to be the same thing. Where you say you're going and where you're going are never the same place. You don't give information to people who don't need it or to people who could give it to other people who shouldn't have it. You're a lawyer. You know that." Indeed I did, but a lunch destination was not the kind of information I kept secret or lied about.
But then again, nobody wanted to shoot me at lunch.
CHAPTER 28
Little Italy is not far from Foley Square and is also close to Police Plaza, the FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza, and the state and city criminal courts. These geographical proximate are a convenience to attorneys, law enforcement people, and occasionally to certain persons residing in Little Italy who might have official business with one of these government agencies. So it was that we could actually have pulled up in front of Giulio's Restaurant on Mott Street in Little Italy within five minutes of leaving Foley Square. But instead, because of other considerations, it took us close to an hour. On the other hand, it was only now noon, time for lunch.
Giulio's, I saw, was an old-fashioned restaurant located on the ground floor of one of those turn-of-the-century, six-storey tenement buildings bristling with fire escapes. There was a glass-panelled door to the left, and to the right, a storefront window that was half-covered by a red cafe curtain. Faded gold letters on the window spelled out the word GIULIO'S. There was nothing else in the window, no menus, no press clippings, and no credit-card stickers. The establishment did not look enticing or inviting. As I mentioned, I come to Little Italy now and then, usually with clients, as Wall Street is not far away. But I've never noticed this place, and if I had, I wouldn't have stepped inside. In truth, my clients (and I) prefer the slick Mulberry Street restaurants, filled with tourists and suburbanites who stare at one another, trying to guess who's Mafia.
Lenny drove off to park the car, and Vinnie entered the restaurant first. I guess he was the point man. I stood on the sidewalk with Bellarosa, who had his back to the brick wall and was looking up and down the street. I asked him, "Why are we standing outside?"
Bellarosa replied, "It's good to let them know you're coming."
"I see. And you really can't call ahead, can you?"
"No. You don't want to do that."
"Right." He never looked at me, but kept an eye on the block. There are many fine restaurants in Little Italy, all trying to keep a competitive edge. A shortcut to fame and fortune sometimes occurs when a man like don Bellarosa comes in and gets shot at his table. A terrible headline flashed in front of my eyes: DANDY DON AND MOUTHPIECE HIT.
I asked my lunch companion, "Has anyone been knocked off here?"
He glanced at me. "What? Oh… no. Yeah. Once. Yeah, back in the Prohibition days.
Long time ago. You like fried squid? Calamaretti fritti?"
"Probably not."
Vinnie opened the door and stuck his head out. "Okay." We entered. The restaurant was long and narrow, and the rows of tables had traditional red-checkered cloths. The floor was ancient white ceramic tile, and the ceiling was that pressed tin with glossy white paint on it. Three ceiling fans spun lazily, keeping the smell of garlic circulating. On the plain white, plaster walls were cheap prints, all showing scenes of sunny Italy. The place wasn't much to look at, but it was authentic.
There weren't many diners, and I could see waiters standing around in red jackets, all stealing glances at don Bellarosa. A man in a black suit rushed toward us, his hand prematurely extended, and he and Bellarosa greeted each other in Italian. Bellarosa called him Patsy, but did not actually introduce him to me, though he was obviously the maitre d'.
Patsy showed us to a corner table in the rear. It was a nice comfortable table with good fields of fire.
Lenny had arrived, and he and Vinnie took a table near the front window with a good view of the door. Now we had interlocking fields of fire, which was the first requirement for a pleasant lunch at Giulio's.
Patsy was obsequious, the waiters bowed and bowed and bowed as we walked by, and a man and a woman, apparently the owner and his wife, ran out of the kitchen and stopped just short of prostrating themselves on the floor. Everyone was grinning except Frank, who had this sort of Mafia poker face on that I'd never seen before. I said to him, "Come here often?"
"Yeah." He said something to the owner in Italian, and the man ran off, perhaps to kill himself, I thought, but he returned shortly with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. Patsy uncorked the wine but Frank poured. Finally, after a lot of fussing around our table, everyone left us alone. Frank banged his glass against mine and said, "Salute!"
"Cheers," I replied, and drank the wine, which tasted like grappa diluted with tannic acid. Yuk!
Frank smacked his lips. "Aahh… that's good. Special stuff. Direct from the other side."
They should have left it there.
A few more people had entered, and I looked around. The clientele at lunch hour seemed to be mostly locals, mostly men, and mostly old, wearing baggy suits without ties. I could overhear a mixture of English and Italian around me. There were a few younger men in good suits, and like a vampire who can tell its own kind at a glance, I recognized them as Wall Street types, trendy twerps who had 'discovered' Giulio's the way Columbus discovered America, i.e., it ain't there until I find it.
Here and there I noticed tables at which were men who I thought might be in Frank's business. And in fact, Frank nodded to a few of these people, who nodded back. Despite the informality of the place and the fact that it was warm, only the Wall Street twerps and a few of the old men had removed their jackets. The rest of the clientele, I was sure, were either wearing shoulder holsters or wanted everyone to think they were. Frank, I knew, could not be armed, as he had just been through a booking and search. Lenny and Vinnie, I knew, were armed. I was basically unarmed, except for my three-hundred-dollar Montblanc pen and my American Express Gold Card.
I said to my client, "Are you satisfied with the way it went this morning?"
He shrugged. "It went like it went. I got no complaints with you."
"Fine. Do you want to discuss the charge against you? The defence?"
"I told you, it's bullshit. It's not getting to trial."
"It could. Ferragamo had five witnesses for the grand jury. Those witnesses said enough to implicate you in the murder of Juan Carranza." "Ferragamo's probably got something on them. They maybe saw the hit, but they didn't see my face there."
I nodded. "Okay. I believe you."