Indeed, no one in Frank's business had female genitalia. If the government couldn't get him on murder or racketeering, maybe they could nail him on discriminatory hiring.
He went on, "I'm telling ya, Counsellor, I'd rather see you talking to the devil than some puttan' who's trying to make a name for herself." Well, what was I going to say? That I was infatuated with Jenny Alvarez and it was strictly personal? I mean, it was hard for me to hold the moral high ground after dragging Ms Alvarez and a bottle of scotch into my room. You know? But did I have to listen to a sermon from Frank Bellarosa? Maybe I did. The Bishop went on, "Men's business is men's business. Women don't play by the same rules."
"Neither do men," I informed him.
"Yeah. But some do. I try to keep my business in the family. You know? My own kind. That's why I had to make you an honorary Italian." He laughed. "Am I Sicilian or a Neapolitan?"
He laughed again. "I'll make you a Roman because you're a pain in the ass."
"I'm honoured."
"Good."
Indeed, everyone in Frank's world was male, and nearly all of them were Italian, and most of them were of Sicilian ancestry or from the city or region of Naples, as Bellarosa's family was. This did make the rules of behaviour and business easier, but there weren't many outside ideas that penetrated this closed world. Jack Weinstein's roots, though, were obviously not southern Italian, and he was perhaps Bellarosa's link to the outside. I had learned, incidentally, that Weinstein's family and Bellarosa's family had known one another in Williamsburg. That section of Brooklyn, you should understand, was not predominantly Italian, but was mostly German, Jewish, and a little Irish. A real melting pot, to use an inaccurate term, since no one mixed much, let alone melted. However, because of the proximities of other cultures, the Williamsburg immigrants were not quite as insular as the immigrants in other areas of New York, who created tight little worlds. Thus, the Williamsburg Italians, such as those around Santa Lucia, went to school with and even made friends with non-Italians. This information came from Mr Bellarosa, who didn't use the words proximity and insular, but I understood what he was saying. Anyway, he and Weinstein went back a lot of years, which I found interesting, and, like me, Jack Weinstein did not want to be, nor could he ever be, under Mafia constitutional law, the don. Thus, Weinstein was Bellarosa's Henry Kissinger, if you'll accept that analogy. So how did I fit into the Bellarosa crime family? Well, I was the noblest Roman of them all.
We checked out of the Plaza on Sunday and returned to Long Island in a three-car convoy, each car packed with Italian men and Italian food. I was in the middle car with Bellarosa, and the interior smelled of ripening cheese and cigars. I didn't know if I would have to boil my clothes or burn them. Regarding Susan, she hadn't called again; at least she hadn't called me again. And I never did return her call and couldn't if I wanted to since I'd thrown away her new unlisted number. So, to be honest, I was a little tense about walking through the front door.
Bellarosa said to me, "The girls will be happy to see us."
I didn't reply.
"They probably thought we were having a good time in the city. Whenever you go away on business, they think you're having a ball. Meantime, you're busting your ass to make a buck. Right?"
"Right."
"Anyway, Anna's cooking all my favourite things tonight." Whereupon he rattled off all his favourite things in this sort of singsong voice that Italians use when talking about food. I actually recognized a few of the things. I'm an honorary Italian. Anyway, this food talk must have made him hungry because he ripped open a bag of biscotti and unwrapped a hunk of cheese that smelled like gym socks. He borrowed a stiletto from Vinnie and went to work on the cheese. Executive lunch. He asked, "Want some?"
"No, thanks."
"You know what a garbage truck is called in an Italian neighbourhood?"
"No, I don't."
"Meals on wheels." He laughed. "Tell me one."
"Did you hear about the dumb Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car?"
"No."
"He burnt his mouth on the tail pipe."
He liked that one and slid the Plexiglas divider open and told it to Lenny and Vinnie, who laughed, though I could tell they didn't get it. We rode in silence for a while, and I reflected on the present state of affairs. Despite the unspoken and unresolved issues between Frank Bellarosa and me, I was still his lawyer, and if I took him at his word, his friend. I could believe that if it weren't for the fact that I was also his alibi, and he was protecting his interest in me, which sort of coloured things.
Actually I didn't want to be his lawyer anymore, or his friend or his alibi. I could have told him that a few days ago, but since his arraignment it had become vastly more complicated for me to cut ties to him. As a lawyer, and therefore an officer of the court, what I had said in court was perjury even though I hadn't been under oath. And as a lawyer, if I recanted what I'd said, I'd probably be facing disbarment, not to mention a bullet in the head. There was, of course, this other side to being made an honorary Italian. It wasn't all wine and rigatoni, it was also omerta – silence – and it was us against them, and it was some sort of unspoken oath of loyalty that I must have taken, accepting Frank Bellarosa as my don. Mamma mia, this shouldn't happen to a High Episcopalian. Bellarosa impaled a hunk of cheese on the point of the knife and held it under my nose. "Here. You make me nervous when you watch me eat. Mangia." I took the cheese and bit into it. It wasn't bad, but it stunk.
Bellarosa watched me with satisfaction. "Good?"
"Molto bene." Not only were we partners in crime, but we were beginning to talk and smell the same.
After a few minutes of silence, he said to me, "Hey, I know you're pissed about some things, you know, things that you think I did to you, like the Melzer thing. But like I told you once, sometimes you can't get even. Sometimes you got to take the hit and be happy you're still on your feet. Then the next time you're a little tougher and a little smarter."
"Thank you, Frank. I didn't realize all you've done for me."
"Yeah, you did."
"Don't do me any more favours. Okay?"
"Okay. But here's some more free advice. Don't do me those kinds of favours, either. You don't talk to people like that reporter broad, and you don't even think about ways to even up the score. I'm telling you that for your own good. Because I like you, and I don't want to see nothing happen to you." "Look, Frank, I 'm not into vendetta like you are. I took the hit and I learned my lesson as you said. But if I was into revenge for the Melzer thing and for those other things, I guarantee you, you wouldn't even see it coming. So we let bygones be bygones, and we finish out our business, and we part friends. Capisce?"
He looked at me a long time, then said, "Yeah, you're smart enough to take a shot at me, but you ain't tough enough."
"Fuck me again and we'll find out."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I could tell he wasn't real happy with me, but he thought about it and said, "Well, I'm not going to fuck you again, so we'll never find out. Okay?" "Sure."
He put out his hand and I took it. We shook, but I wasn't sure what we were shaking on, and I don't think he knew either. Neither did he believe me that I wasn't looking for revenge, and I didn't believe that he wouldn't screw me again the first time it was in his interest to do so.
Anyway, as we approached the expressway exit to Lattingtown, Bellarosa said in a tone of conciliation, "Hey, come on over for dinner tonight. We got lots of food. Anna invited a bunch of people over. All relatives. No businesspeople." "Are we related?"
"No, but it's an honour to be invited to a family thing."
"Thank you," I said noncommittally.
"Good. Susan, too. I think Anna talked to her already." He added, "Hey, I got an idea. Let's make this the picture party. Everybody's going to be there who I want to see the picture. Let's do that."