"Because you would have said no, no, no."
I realized what the dress was all about now. "I am not going." "Oh, look, John, this is better than doing dinner or some beastly Easter thing with lamb parts and a house full of paesanos."
"Full of what?"
"Let's go and get it over with. It's easier than being evasive for the next few years."
"No, it isn't."
"John, his men are moving our stable."
"Your stable, to your land."
"We are at a distinct disadvantage. Be civil."
"I am not going to be bullied, bribed, or embarrassed into accepting a social invitation." I added, "I have a briefcase full of work tonight." I patted the briefcase beside me.
"Do it for me." She pursed those magnificent pouty lips. "Please."
"I'll think about it." I grumbled and looked at my watch. It was seven-fifteen. I called the waitress over and ordered a double scotch. We sat in the booth, me nursing my scotch and my resentment, Susan chatting about something or other. I interrupted her in mid-sentence. "Does Anna Bellarosa wear glasses?" "Glasses? How would I know? I couldn't tell over the phone."
"That's true."
"Why?"
"Just wondering." I added, "I thought I saw her someplace and wondered if she would recognize me. I saw her in town. I think she's a blonde with big hooters." "Big what?"
"Sunglasses."
"Oh… how could you know…? I'm confused."
"Me, too." I went back to my scotch. I replayed the fountain incident in my mind a few times and decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would recognize me in my pinstripes. I made a mental note not to get down on all fours and spit water.
Finally, at seven-thirty, I said to Susan, "I've been doing some background research on Mr Bellarosa. He did do time once, back in '76. Two years for tax fraud. And that is what you call the tip of the iceberg." Susan responded, "He paid his debt to society."
I nearly choked on my ice cube. "Are you serious?"
"I heard that line in an old movie once. It sounded good." "Anyway, it is alleged that Mr Bellarosa is involved in drug distribution, extortion, prostitution, bid rigging, bribery, murder conspiracy, and so on, and so forth. Additionally, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, is investigating allegations that Mr Frank Bellarosa personally murdered a man. So, do you still want to go to his house for coffee?" "John, I absolutely must see what they've done to Alhambra."
"Will you be serious a moment?"
"Sorry."
"Listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? I am a law-abiding citizen, and I will not abide criminals."
"I hear you. Now listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? Tax fraud? Bill Turner, one year, suspended sentence. Bid rigging? Dick Conners, your former golfing partner, two years for highway bid rigging. Drugs? I'll name you eight users with whom we socialize. And who is that lawyer you used to sail with who embezzled clients' funds?"
Properly chastised, I bowed my head into my scotch and finished it. "All right, Susan, so moral corruption is rampant. It just doesn't seem so bad when it's done by the right sort of people." I chuckled to show I was joking. "What a pompous ass you are sometimes. But at least you know it." "Yes." I stayed silent for a while and listened to the ambient sounds of the nearby bar. The shell-shocked commuters were straggling out, and the singles had not yet arrived for the mating game. It was the quiet hour. Tabby or Tappy, I noticed, was still waiting for her husband, who, if he existed at all, was probably on a business trip out of town. Like all married people, I have often considered what it would be like to be single again.
This thought, for some reason, made me recall my cousin-by-marriage, the delicious Terri, wife of the brainless Freddie, who had indeed called about her will, and we have arranged a lunch date in the city next week. Around here, when you have a suburban office and a suburban client, yet still meet in the city for lunch, then there's more going on than lunch. However, I had already resolved to stick to business with Terri. But someday, my idiotic flirtations are going to get me in trouble. Beryl Carlisle is another case in point. I've seen her at The Creek a few times since I cast lustful looks at her last month. When I see her now, she looks at me as if she wants me to look at her lustfully again. But I'm fickle. And loyal. No Terris for me, no Beryls, no Sally Anns, and no Sally Graces. My wife is the only woman that keeps my interest up. Also, I'm chicken. Somebody had put money in the jukebox, and his or her preference was for fifties tunes. The sound of The Skyliners, singing 'Since I Don't Have You', filled the nearly empty bar. The song brought back memories of a time that I suppose was more innocent, certainly less frightening.
I reached across the table and took Susan's hand. I said, "Our world is shrinking and changing around us, and here we are in the hills like some sort of vanquished race, performing the old rituals and observing the ancient customs, and sometimes, Susan, I think we're ludicrous."
She squeezed my hand. "Here's another St Jerome for you – 'The Roman world is falling, but we will hold our heads erect.'"
"Nice one."
"Ready to go?"
"Yes. Do I kiss his ring?"
"A handshake will be sufficient." She added, "Think of the evening as a challenge, John. You need a challenge."
This was true. Challenge and adventure. Why can't some men be content with a warm fire and a hot wife? Why do men go to war? Why did I go to Alhambra to visit the dragon? Because I needed a challenge. In retrospect, I should have stayed in McGlade's and challenged Susan to a videogame of Tank Attack.
PART III
Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.
• Matthew 7:13
CHAPTER 15
Alhambra. We were late but not fashionably so. Just ten minutes. I was driving Susan's Jaguar and I pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, which were closed. There was one of those post-mounted speakers near my window, and I pushed the call button. No one spoke to me through the speaker, but the gates began slowly swinging open. Technology is eerie. But it has allowed us to live tolerably well without our maids, cooks, charwomen, and other helpful humans. And now it gives us some of the security and convenience once provided by gatekeepers and estate managers.
But Mr Frank Bellarosa had both technology and servants, for as I drove the Jag through the open gates, a large Homo sapiens appeared in my headbeams. I stopped, and the figure moved toward my window, his knuckles dragging along the ground. It was a human male of about thirty, dressed in a dark silk shirt open to his navel, which revealed so much hair that I could see why he couldn't button it. Over his shirt he wore a dark sports jacket, which did not cover his shoulder holster when he leaned into the car.
The man had an unpleasant face with matching expression. He said to me, "Can I help ya?"
"Yeah. Da Suttas ta see da Bellarosas."
He spotted Susan and smiled. "Oh, hello, Mrs Sutta."
"Hello, Anthony."
"Shoulda recognized ya car."
"That's all right."
"Mr Bellarosa's waitin' for ya."
This was all going on a few inches from my face, but as I didn't exist, it didn't matter. Before Susan and Anthony had quite finished with their conversation, I hit the gas and the Jag bounced over the cobblestones. I asked Susan, "Come here often?"
"He's nicer than he looks."
"But is he paper trained?" I proceeded slowly up the drive. I like the sound of Michelins bouncing over cobble. It sounds like you've arrived before you stop the car.
Alhambra's drive is about a quarter-mile long, straight, as I said, and flanked by tall, statuesque Lombardy poplars, all leafed out now and perfectly pruned. Between the poplars were new garden lights that cast a soft amber glow over thousands of newly planted flowers. Ahead, I could see Alhambra's white stucco walls and red tile roofs looming larger. Jaded as I am, I always get a thrill when I drive up to one of the great houses at night. Their entranceways were designed to impress kings and millionaires and to intimidate everyone else. Unfortunately, the Bellarosas did not know about the custom of turning on the lights in all the front rooms when guests were expected, so the house looked dark and foreboding as we approached, except that the front door and the forecourt were lit.