Ferragamo continued, "This murder indictment is only the first of many more indictments to come in the war against organized crime. The scope of this investigation has been widened to include other charges against Frank Bellarosa including charges of racketeering under the RICO Act. Other figures in Bellarosa's organization are also under investigation." That didn't get a round of applause. On one level, everyone knew that Ferragamo was beating the bush to see who would panic and run to him. But on another level, everyone in that room had a friend or relative in jail. Mancuso had been right about the mob's being crippled by a slew of recent convictions. But there were others in the five families who saw this as an opportunity, a period of cleansing. Out with the old blood, in with the new. Gang wars used to accomplish the same thing.
And speaking of gang wars, Ferragamo was right on top of it. He said, "The U.S. Attorney's office and other federal, state, and city law enforcement agencies are concerned that this struggle for control of the drug distribution may lead to a new type of gang war on the streets of New York: a war between and among different ethnic groups who live in uneasy peace among themselves, but who may now resort to violence." Ferragamo looked up from his prepared statement. For a half second you could hear the breathing in the room around me, then a reporter at the press conference asked Ferragamo, "Did you expect Bellarosa to show up with a Wall Street lawyer and five million dollars?" A few people in the press room laughed, and in the hotel room many heads turned toward me.
Ferragamo smiled sardonically. "We had some indication of that." Then, there she was, Ms Snippy, aka Jenny Alvarez, standing up and asking, "You have five witnesses, Mr Ferragamo, who say they saw Frank Bellarosa shoot Juan Carranza. Yet Bellarosa's lawyer, John Sutter, says he saw Bellarosa on Long Island that morning. Who's lying?"
Alphonse Ferragamo gave a nice Italian shrug. "We'll let a jury decide that." He added, "Whoever is lying will be charged with perjury." Including you, Alphonse. I'm not taking this rap alone. And so it went for another minute, but then it was time to get on to the standard story of the fire in the South Bronx, which was only newsworthy because nobody could believe there was anything left in South Bronx to burn. Actually, I think they run the same footage of the last fire on slow news days. Lenny flipped through the other two networks, but we only caught the last few seconds of the Ferragamo news conference, which had apparently been everyone's lead story.
Lenny turned back to the all-news channel, which at that particular moment was doing sports. The Mets did it again, trouncing Montreal six to one. What a day. Why did I feel eyes on me? Well, time to fade to black as they say, so I opened the door to my bedroom, but saw it was being used for a meeting. Sitting around on my chairs and bed were six unhappy-looking men, including Mr Sally Da-da, who stared at me and inquired, "Yeah?"
"This is my room."
They all looked from one to another, then back at me. "Yeah?" I said, "I'll give you ten minutes." I closed the door and went right to the bar. Actually, they could have longer if they needed it. The crowd had thinned to about thirty men now, and I noticed that Jack Weinstein was gone. I took my drink and went to one of the windows again and opened it, breathing in some fresh air.
Frank Bellarosa came up beside me with a drink in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. We both stared out at the park and the lights of the great city. Finally he said, "You have a good time tonight?"
"Interesting."
"You talked to Jack."
"Yes. Smart guy."
"Yeah. Who else you talk to?"
"Fat Paulie. Some other people. I didn't catch many names."
"Yeah? You meet my brother-in-law?"
"Sort of." I added, "He's in my bedroom now with five other men."
Bellarosa said nothing.
We continued looking out into the summer night, and I was reminded of the night on his balcony. He offered me a cigar and I took it. He lit it with a gold lighter, and I blew smoke out the window. He said to me, "You understand what's happening here?"
"I think I do."
"Yeah. We got a long, hard fight ahead of us, Counsellor. But we won round one today."
"Yes. By the way, I'd like my fifty dollars back."
"What?"
"I heard about your snitch in Ferragamo's office."
"Yeah? From who?"
"Doesn't matter who."
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a fifty, which I took. He said, "Wanna make another bet?"
"What's the bet?"
"I bet that's the last time you catch me cheating." He laughed and slapped me on the back.
So we puffed away on the Monte Cristos, then he said to me, "A lot of these goombahs think you're magic or something. Capisce? They respect your world. They think you people still hold the power in your hands. Maybe you do. Maybe it's slipping away. Maybe if the Italians and the Anglos could somehow get together, we could get New York back. Maybe get this country back." I didn't reply, because I couldn't tell if he was serious, joking, or crazy. He said, "Anyway, you have this… what do you call it…? This like aura, you know, around you, like you are connected to powerful sources. That's what they said on television. That's what a lot of these goombahs believe." "You sure got your fifty thousand worth."
He laughed. "Yeah."
"You understand, I hope, that I have no such power. I'm socially and financially connected, but not politically connected at all."
He shrugged. "So what? That's between us."
"All right. I 'm going to bed. Can I kick your brother-in-law out of my room?" "Later. We'll wait up for the bulldog editions. I can get the Post and the Daily News hot off the press in about half an hour. I got people waiting for them now." He asked me, "Hey, you call your wife?"
"No. Did you call yours?"
"Yeah, she called before. She's okay. She said to tell you hello. She likes you."
"She's a nice woman. A good wife."
"Yeah, but she drives me nuts with her worrying. Women. Madonn'." He let a second or two pass, then said, "Maybe it's good that we get away from them for a few days. You know? They appreciate you more when you're gone awhile." I wondered if Anna appreciated her husband more after he returned from two years in a federal penitentiary. Maybe she did. Maybe if I got nailed on a perjury rap and went away for five years, Susan would really appreciate me. Maybe not. At about midnight, with about a dozen people left in the suite, two men arrived within a few minutes of each other, each carrying a stack of newspapers. One had the Post, the ink still wet on it, and the other, the Daily News. They threw the papers on the coffee table.
I read the Post headline: GOTCHA, FRANK. The Post is not subtle. Beneath the headline was a full-page photo of Frank Bellarosa being led down a corridor of the Federal Court in cuffs, with Mancuso holding his arm. I learned from the caption that Mr Mancuso's first name was Felix, which explained a lot. It was obvious that despite the prohibition against cameras in the courthouse, Ferragamo had arranged for the daily newspapers to have photo opportunities during the time that Bellarosa was in cuffs. A picture is worth a thousand words, and maybe as many votes when November rolled around. Bellarosa picked up one of the copies of the Post and studied the photo. "I'm taller than Mancuso. You see? Ferragamo likes to have big FBI guys around the guy in cuffs. He don't like Mancuso for a lot of reasons. Plus the guy's short." He laughed.
The remaining men in the room, including me, Frank, Lenny, Vinnie, Sally Da-da and two of his goons, and a few other soldier types each took or shared the newspapers. I picked up a copy of the Daily News, whose headline read: BELLAROSA ON MURDER CHARGE.
Again, there was a full-page photo, this one of Bellarosa holding his cuffed hands up, clenched together like a victorious prizefighter. The caption read:
Frank Bellarosa, reputed boss of New York's largest crime family, taken into custody in Federal Court yesterday morning. I held the newspaper up for Bellarosa. "You'll like this shot."