As for the United States v. Frank Bellarosa, that seemed to be moving rather more slowly than Mr Ferragamo promised. Not only did we not have a trial date, but I hadn't had an opportunity to examine any of the five witnesses against my client. Alphonse informed me one day by phone, "We have them all in hiding under the witness protection programme. They're very frightened about testifying in open court against a Mafia chief."
"There is no Mafia."
Ha, ha, said Alphonse, and he added, "They didn't mind the grand jury, but now they're getting cold feet."
"Four Colombian drug goons and a gun moll have cold feet?" "Why not? So for that reason, Mr Sutter, I've asked for a delay in the trial date. I'll keep you informed." He added, "What's your rush? This should make you happy. Maybe the witnesses will refuse to testify."
"Maybe they were lying from the beginning," I pointed out.
"Why would they do that?"
He and I both knew why, but I wasn't allowed to bug him. "Maybe", I said, "it was a case of mistaken identity. All Italians look alike, don't they?" "Actually, they don't, Mr Sutter. I don't look anything like Frank Bellarosa, for instance. By the way, regarding mistaken identity, I discovered that you were at your country club at about one P.M. on January fourteenth, for lunch with your wife."
"So what? I said I saw Bellarosa at about nine A.M., then again at about noon." "And you went home, took care of your horse, presumably showered, changed into a suit, and were at your club at one P.M."
"They don't call me superman for nothing."
"Hmmm," said Alphonse. I mean, this guy thought he was Inspector Porfiry Petrovich, hounding poor Raskolnikov into a confession, but I found him a bore. Anyway, I was more convinced than ever that Alphonse was stalling and would continue to stall until somebody out on the street solved his problem. He didn't have long to wait.
Regarding my relationships with friends and family, that was also on hold. Part of the reason for this was that I was keeping out of touch, which is no easy thing to do these days. Try it. But I disconnected my home fax, changed my phone number to an unlisted one, and had all my mail forwarded to a P.O. box in the Locust Valley Post Office, which I never visited. Also, Ethel as gatekeeper proved to be a lot more nasty than George ever was, and nobody gets past the gate while Ethel is in the gatehouse. When she's not around, the gate is locked. Jenny Alvarez. Well, that relationship, too, is on hold, which is best for all concerned, as men and women say to each other when they get involved, panic, run, brood, call, run, and so on. But really, there was no use complicating the situation any more than it was. Actually, I didn't even know if Jenny Alvarez cared anymore, and I would have been relieved to hear that she didn't, and pretty annoyed and hurt, too. But I did watch her nearly every night on the news at eleven, and Susan asked me once if I had suddenly become a news junkie. Spouses who are carrying on often display a change in behaviour, as we know, but watching the news is not usually a tip-off. Goes to show you. But watch I did, and I hoped that one night Jenny Alvarez would just break down on the air and cry out, "John! John! I miss you!" or at least, I thought, perhaps when she was out in the field reporting, and she was turning it back to the anchorman, Jeff what's-his-name, she would say, "Back to you, John." But that never happened, at least not on the nights I was watching. Anyway, I had moved into one of the guesthouse's guest rooms, the smallest one, badly and barely furnished, where we always put people whom we don't want around for more than twenty-four hours. Susan had said to me, "I understand your reasons for not wanting us to sleep in the same bed, of course. But I'm glad you decided not to move out. I very much want you to stay." "Then I will. How much is it a night?"
"Twenty dollars would be fair for that room, but I can let you have a better room for only five dollars more."
"I'll stay in the smaller room."
Well, we're still making jokes, and that's a hopeful sign. Right? It's when it becomes really grim that it becomes insufferable. So we lived in that sort of cool limbo that husbands and wives have invented and perfected for the purpose of coexisting until the moving van arrives or until they fall into each other's arms and swear undying love forever, which in connubial terms means about thirty days.
In truth, I was angry, hurt, and vindictive every morning, but by noon I was philosophical, resigned, and willing to let fate take its course. By late evening, however, I was lonely and ready to forgive and forget, unconditionally. But then the next day, the cycle would start over again. Unfortunately, Susan called from Hilton Head about eight A.M., one morning when I was in cycle one, and I said a few things that I regretted by evening. Things like, "How's William Peckerhead of Hilton Head?"
"Settle down, John."
Or, "Did you want to speak to Zanzibar?"
"Go have your coffee and call me back."
Well, I did that night, but she wasn't in. Anyway, in the week or so since she's been back, I've been civilized.
So, there we were in Giulio's, having dinner, which was a little bizarre considering the circumstances. But my client had really insisted on this little get-together, though for what reason I couldn't guess except that he really enjoyed showing off in Little Italy where people knew who he was. Of course, that has a negative side as well, especially if you're a marked man. I mean, if there really was a contract out on this guy, any goombah in that restaurant could have gone out to make a phone call to some other goombah, and eventually the wrong goombahs would get the word, and for the price of a twenty-five-cent call, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa's whereabouts would be fixed. But I don't think that's what actually happened on the night of September seventeenth. I'm pretty sure it was Lenny who fingered his boss, as they say. But, anyway, I acquiesced to this dinner because, quite frankly, to say no to it would have been un-Machiavellian; i.e., I was still royally pissed off at old Frank and Mrs Sutter no matter how much I tried to cool down, but to show it would put them on their guard. What? Revenge? Vendetta? Had I lied to Frank and to myself? Was I still looking to get even? You bet. Though I had no idea what, if anything, I was going to do to or about these two, I wanted to keep their guards down and my options open.
So we sipped coffee and ate pastry. The normal security was in effect with Vinnie and Lenny at their favourite table near the door, while we were at Frank's favourite table in the rear corner. Frank sat in his very favourite chair, facing the front with his back to the wall.
Susan at one point in the evening had said to Frank, "That's very good of you to buy your employees dinner. Most men just send their car and driver away until they're ready to leave."
This was either the most facetious or the most naive statement I'd heard all year, and I wasn't sure which. Susan sometimes plays the naif as I mentioned, but the act was wearing a little thin.