Then another five for the books. Books go for ten bucks a foot."
"Excuse me?"
"There's five hundred feet of bookshelf. Books are ten bucks a foot. So that's five large… five thousand." He added, "But I had a few books of my own." I guess you can talk money here. I observed, "That saved you a few bucks."
"Yeah. I had my school books."
"Machiavelli."
He smiled. "Yeah. And Dante. St Augustine. You ever read that guy?"
"Yes. Have you read St Jerome?"
"Sure. His collected letters. I told you, those Christian Brothers made me learn." He jumped out of his chair, went to a shelf, located a book, and opened it. "Here's St Jerome. I like this. Listen." He quoted, "'My country is prey to barbarism, and in it men's only God is their belly, and they live only for the present.'" He shut the book. "So what's new? Right? People don't change. If this guy wasn't a priest, he would've said, "Their belly and their cock." Men follow their cocks around and that's how they ruin their lives. You gotta think with your head, not your cock. You got to think of the future before you stick it someplace it don't belong."
"Easier said than done."
He laughed, "Yeah." He looked at his books. "Sometimes I sit here at night with one of those old school books. Sometimes I think I should've been a priest. Except for… you know… my cock." He added, "Women. Jesus Christ, they drive me nuts."
I nodded in sympathy. "You aren't a real bishop then?" He laughed again and put the book back. "No. My uncle used to call me his bishop because my head was all full of this stuff from La Salle. He used to say to his friends, 'This is my nephew, the bishop.' Then he'd make me recite something in Latin."
"You speak Latin?"
"Nah. Just some stuff I leaned by memory." He went to a serving cart and took a decanter and two brandy snifters from it and put them on the coffee table. He sat again and poured a dark fluid into the glasses. "Grappa. You ever have this?"
"No."
"It's like brandy, but worse." He raised his glass to me.
I picked up my glass, we clinked, and I poured it down. I should have listened to Bellarosa's veiled warning about grappa. I can drink anything, but this was something else. I felt my throat burn, then my stomach heaved, and I thought I was about to blow the coffee hour all over the cigars. Through watery eyes I saw Bellarosa watching me over the rim of his glass. I cleared my throat. "Mamma mia …"
"Yeah. Sip it." He finished his grappa and poured himself another, then held the bottle toward me.
"No, thanks." I tried to breathe, but the cigar smoke was thick.
I put my cigar out, stood, and went out onto the balcony.
Bellarosa followed, with his cigar and his glass. He said, "Nice view."
I nodded as I breathed the clear night air. My stomach settled down. He pointed off in the distance with his cigar. "What's that place? You can't see it at night. It's like a golf course."
"Yes. Exactly like a golf course. That's The Creek."
"Greek?"
"Creek. A country club."
"Yeah? They play golf there?"
"Yes. On the golf course."
"You play golf?"
"A bit."
"I can't see that game. How's it fun?"
I thought a moment, then replied, "Who said it was?" I added, "They have skeet shooting, too. Do you shoot?"
He laughed.
I thought it was time to let Frank Bellarosa know I was a real man. I said, "I'm not bad with a shotgun."
"Yeah? I fired a shotgun once."
"Skeet or birds?" I inquired.
He stayed silent a moment, then replied, "Birds. Ducks." He added, "I don't like shotguns."
"How about rifles?" I asked.
"Yeah. I belong to a club in the city. The Italian Rifle Club. It's a social club. You probably heard of it."
Indeed I had. An interesting establishment in Little Italy, some of whose members had never fired a sporting rifle in their lives, but who found the rifle range in the basement convenient for pistol practice. I asked, "What type of rifle do you own?"
"I don't remember."
I tried to recall how the Colombian drug king was murdered. Pistol, I think.
Yes, five bullets in the head from close range.
"You feel better?" he asked me.
"Yes."
"Good." Bellarosa sipped his grappa, smoked his contraband cigar, and surveyed his kingdom. He pointed again with the cigar. "I found a fountain over there and a statue of Neptune. That's where that guy scared the hell out of Anna. You ever seen that?"
"Yes. I've ridden all over this land."
"That's right. Anyway, I fixed that whole place up. The pool, the fountain, the statue. I put a statue of the Virgin there, too, and had the whole thing blessed by a priest friend of mine. You gotta see it."
"The priest blessed the statue of Neptune?"
"Sure. Why not? Anyway, there was these Roman ruins there, too. Broken columns and all. The landscape guy said it was built like that. That right?" "Yes."
"Why did they build a ruin?"
"That was popular once."
"Why?"
I shrugged. "Maybe to remind themselves that nothing is forever."
"Like, sic transit gloria mundi."
I looked at him. "Yes. That's it."
He nodded thoughtfully and drew on his cigar.
I gazed out over Alhambra's acres. A half moon was high in a brilliantly clear sky, and a soft breeze blew in from the Sound, bringing with it the smell of the sea, as well as the perfume of May flowers. What a night. Bellarosa, too, seemed to appreciate the moment. "Brooklyn. Fuck Brooklyn. I go to Italy when I want to get away. I got a place in Italy, outside of Sorrento." "I've been to Sorrento. Where is your place?"
"I can't say. You know? It's a place where I might have to go someday. Only five people know where it is. Me, my wife, and my kids."
"That's smart."
"Yeah. You got to think ahead. But for now, I like it here. Brooklyn's finished."
So was the Gold Coast, but that wasn't so apparent to Frank Bellarosa, who didn't comprehend that he was part of the problem.
He added, "We had a nice house in Brooklyn. An old brownstone. Five storeys.
Beautiful. But it was attached, and the yard was too small to have a big garden. I always wanted land. My grandparents were peasants. It's their old farm that I bought from the people who owned it. But I let the people farm the land for free. I keep the farmhouse. It's white stucco like this, with a red roof. But smaller."
We both stayed silent a moment, then he said, "You got a whole temple over there. Dominic said you showed him the temple. You got Venus over there." "Yes."
"You people pagans over there?" He laughed.
"Sometimes."
"Yeah. I'd like to see that temple."
"Sure."
"I'd like to see the inside of the big mansion."
"Do you want to buy it?"
"Maybe."
"Half a million."
"I know that." He added, "You could have said more."
"No, I couldn't, because the price is half a million. With ten acres."
"Yeah? How about the whole place?"
"About twenty million for the land."
"Madonn'! You got oil on that place?"
"No, we got dirt. And there's not much of that left around here. Why would you want another estate?"
"I don't know… maybe build houses on the land. Can I make money if I build houses?"
"Probably. You should be able to make a profit of five or six million."
"What's the catch?"
"Well, you have to get permission to subdivide the property."
"Yeah? From who?"
"Zoning people. But the neighbours and the environmentalists will hold you up in court."
He thought awhile, and I knew he was trying to figure out who had to be paid off, who had to be offered the best deal, and who had to be actually threatened. I said, "My wife's parents own the estate. Do you know that?"