"Why do you think I know Italian?"
"Dominic told me." He smiled. "He said to me – in Italian – 'Padrone, this American lady with red hair speaks Italian!'" Bellarosa laughed. "He was amazed."
Susan smiled. "Actually, I don't speak it well. It was my language in school. I took it because I majored in fine arts."
"Yeah? Well, I'm going to test you later."
And so we chatted for another ten minutes or so, and I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't entertaining. The man knew how to hold court and tell stories, and although nothing of any importance or even intelligence was said, Bellarosa was lively and animated, using more hand gestures and facial expressions in ten minutes than I use in a year. He filled everyone's glass with sambuca, then changed his mind and insisted we try amaretto, which he poured into fresh glasses while he continued to talk.
This was a man who obviously enjoyed life, which, I suppose, was understandable for a person who knew firsthand how suddenly it could be cut short. I asked him bluntly, "Do you have bodyguards here in the house, or just Anthony out there?" He looked at me and didn't reply for a long time, then answered, "Mr Sutter, a man of wealth in this country, as in Italy, must protect himself and his family against kidnapping and terrorism."
"Not in Lattingtown," I assured him. "We have very strict village ordinances here."
Bellarosa smiled. "We have a very strict rule, too, Mr Sutter, and maybe you know about it. The rule is this – you never touch a man in his own house or in front of his family. So nobody in this neighbourhood should worry about things like that. Okay?"
The conversation had turned interesting. I replied, "Perhaps you can attend the next village meeting and assure everyone for the record." Bellarosa looked at me but said nothing.
Feeling reckless, I pushed on, "So then, why do you have security here?"
He leaned toward me and spoke softly. "You asked me what I learned at La Salle. I'll tell you one thing I learned. No matter what kind of peace treaties you got, you post a twenty-four-hour guard. That keeps everybody honest, and makes people sleep better. Don't worry about it." He patted my shoulder. "You're safe here."
I smiled in return and pointed out helpfully, "You've got double protection, Mr Bellarosa, compliments of the American taxpayer. Capisce?" He laughed, then snorted. "Yeah. They watch the front gate, but I watch my ass." He inquired, "So, you know about that, do you, Mr Sutter? How'd you know about that?"
I was about to reply, but I felt a kick in the ankle. A kick in the ankle, of course, does not mean, "You're being so charming and witty, my dear, please go on."
Susan asked our host, "Can I help Mrs Bellarosa in the kitchen?" "No, no. She's okay. She makes a big deal. I'll tell you what she's doing now, because I know. She's stuffing cannoli. You know, when you buy them already stuffed, they sometimes get soggy, even in the good bakeries. So my wife, she gets the shells separate, and she gets the cream or makes it herself, and she stuffs, stuffs, stuffs. With a spoon."
Susan nodded, a bit uncertainly, I thought.
It sort of surprised me, I guess, that this man was so artless and ingenuous, and that his wife was in the kitchen of their mansion stuffing pastry with a spoon. He wasn't putting on any airs for the Sutters, that was for sure. I didn't know if I was touched or annoyed.
Anyway, the door opened again, and in came a full-bodied blonde, carrying a huge tray, heaped with enough pastries to feed a medium-size Chinese city. I could barely see the woman's face, but her arms were stretched way out so that the pastry could clear her breasts, and I knew in a flash it must be Mrs B. I stood, and so did Bellarosa, who took the tray from the woman and said, "This is my wife, Anna." He put the tray on the table. "Anna, this is Mr and Mrs Sutter." Anna brushed her hands on her hips and smiled. "Hello." She and Susan shook hands, then she turned to me.
Our eyes met, our hands touched, our lips smiled, her brow wrinkled. I said, "I'm very pleased to meet you." She kept looking at me, and I could almost hear the old synapses making connections between her narrowed eyes. Click, click, click. She asked, "Didn't we meet or something?"
It was the 'or something' that caused me some anxiety. "I think I saw you in Loparo's," I said, mentioning the name of the Italian market in Locust Valley in which I wouldn't be caught dead.
"Yeah," she agreed without conviction. "No," she changed her mind. "No… I'll think of it."
If I were a real man, I would have ripped off my glasses, jumped on the floor, and revealed my true identity. But I didn't see what good would come of that. "Why are we all standing?" asked Mr Bellarosa, who also couldn't understand why we had stood around in the palm court. "Sit, sit," he commanded. We sat and he poured his wife an amaretto. We all made small talk.
Mrs Bellarosa was sitting directly across the table from me, which I didn't like, but it gave me the advantage of watching for signs that she was beginning to recall her terrifying Easter morning. If you're interested, she was wearing what I think are called hostess pyjamas. They were sort of an iridescent orange, but the colour kept changing every time she moved. She wore huge triangular gold earrings, which, if connected to a shortwave radio, could have picked up Naples. Around her neck was a gold cross sort of nestled in her cleavage, and for some reason I was reminded of Christ of the Andes. Also, five out of her ten fingers held gold rings, and on each of her wrists were gold bangles. If she fell into the reflecting pool, I wondered, would the gold sink her right to the bottom, or would the buoyancy of those two big lungs keep her afloat. I should say something about her looks. She was not unattractive. It depends on what you like. The makeup was overdone, but I could see she had fair skin for an Italian woman. Her eyes were hazel, her full lips were painted emergency-exit red, and her hair, as I said, was bleached blond. I could see the dark roots. She seemed pleasant enough, smiled easily, and had surprisingly graceful gestures. She also wore a nice perfume.
I don't know what a Mafia don's wife should look like, since you never see one in public or on the news, but I guessed that Anna Bellarosa was better looking than most. Sometimes, when I'm in my male-chauvinist-pig mode – which, thank God, is infrequent – I try to imagine if I would go to bed with a woman I have just met. So, I looked at Anna Bellarosa.
When I was in college, there were five classifications for a woman's looks, based on the maximum light you would want on in the bedroom. There were the 3-way-bulb women – 100-watt, 70-watt, and 30-watt. After that you had your night-light-only women, and finally all-lights-out.
Anna Bellarosa saw me looking at her and smiled. She had a nice smile. So, I figured, with the number of drinks I'd already had, I'd probably turn on the 70-watt bulb.
Frank Bellarosa proposed a toast: "To our new neighbours and new friends." I drank to that, though I had my fingers crossed under the table. Sure I'm superstitious.
We chatted awhile, and Susan made a big deal over the pile of pastry, then complimented the Bellarosas on all the work they were doing on Alhambra. We tossed around a few names for the estate, and I suggested Casa Cannoli. Frank Bellarosa inquired about Susan's vegetable garden, and Anna asked me if I wanted to take off my coat and tie. I certainly did not. And so it went for ten or fifteen minutes, breaking the ice as they say, until finally Frank Bellarosa said, "Hey, call me Frank. Okay? And my wife is Anna." Susan, of course, said, "Please call me Susan."
It was my turn. I said, "John."
"Good," said Frank.
I've never been on a first-name basis with a Mafia don, and I was just thrilled.
I couldn't wait to get to The Creek with the news.
Mrs Bellarosa stood and served the coffee from the urn. We all helped ourselves to the pastry. The coffee and pastry were superb. No complaints there. The conversation turned to children, as it usually does with parents, whether they be kings and queens, or thieves and whores. Parenting is the great equalizer, or more optimistically, a common human bond. I loosened up a bit, partly because of Mrs Bellarosa's presence, but partly because I felt oddly at ease.