"It's a possibility." We were walking, and I turned toward the gazebo. I could see that my companion was unhappy. He grumbled, "The real estate lady never told me about this."
"She didn't tell me about you, either."
He thought about that a moment, trying to determine, I suppose, if that was an ethnic slur, a personal insult, or a reference to the Mafia thing. He grumbled again, "Fucking Iranians…" It was really time for me to give this man a lesson in civics, to remind him what America stood for, and to let him know I didn't like racial epithets. But on further consideration, I realized that would be like trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig. So I said, "You buy it." He nodded. "How much? For the whole place?"
"Well, it's not nearly as much land as Stanhope or Alhambra, but it's waterfront, so I'd say about ten or twelve million for the acreage." "That's a big number."
"It gets bigger. If you get into a bidding war with the Iranians, they'll run you up to fifteen or more."
"I don't bid against other people. You just put me in touch with the people I got to talk to. The owners."
"And you'll make them your best offer, and show them that it's their best offer."
He glanced at me and smiled. "You're learning, Counsellor."
"What would you do with this place?"
"I don't know. Take a swim. I'd let everybody keep using the beach, too. The fucking Arabs wouldn't do that because they got this thing about seeing a little skin. You know? They swim with their fucking sheets on." "I never thought about that." I wondered if this guy could actually buy Stanhope Hall and Fox Point, and still keep Alhambra. Or was he just blowing smoke? Also, it struck me that he had a lot of long-range plans for a man who was facing indictment for murder and who had an impressive list of enemies who wanted him dead. He had balls, I'll give him that.
We walked up the path to the gazebo and entered the big octagonal structure. It was made of wood, but all the paint on the sea side had been weathered off. It was fairly clean inside, probably tidied up by the weird ladies of the Gazebo Society before their luncheon. Someone should teach them how to paint. Bellarosa examined the gazebo. "You got one of these on your place. Yeah, I like it. Nice place to sit and talk. I'll get Dominic here next week." He sat on the bench that ran around the inside of the gazebo. "So, sit, and we'll talk." "I'll stand, you talk, I'll listen."
He produced a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Want one? Real Cuban."
"No, thanks."
He unwrapped his cigar and lit it with a gold lighter. He said, "I asked your kid to ask your daughter to bring me back a box of Monte Cristos." "I would appreciate it if you didn't involve my family in smuggling."
"Hey, if she gets caught, I'll take care of it."
"I'm an attorney. I'll take care of it."
"What's she doing in Cuba?"
"How did you know she was going to Cuba?"
"Your kid told me. He's going to Florida. I gave him some names in Cocoa Beach."
"What sort of names?"
"Names. Friends. People who will take care of him and his friends if they use my name."
"Frank -"
"Hey, what are friends for? But I got no friends in Cuba. Why'd your daughter go to Cuba?"
"To work for world peace."
"Yeah? That's nice. How's it pay? Maybe I'll meet her next time she's in town."
"Maybe. You can pick up your cigars."
"Yeah. Hey, how's that income tax thing coming?"
"Melzer seems to have a handle on it. Thanks."
"No problem. So, no criminal charges, right?"
"That's what he said."
"Good, good. Wouldn't want my lawyer in jail. What's Melzer banging you for?"
"Twenty up front and half of what he saves me."
"That's not bad. If you need some quick cash, you let me know."
"What's the vig?"
He smiled as he drew on his cigar. "For you, prime plus three, same as the fucking bank."
"Thank you, but I've got the funds."
"Your kid said you were selling your summer house to pay taxes."
I didn't reply. It was inconceivable to me that Edward would say that. Bellarosa added, "You don't sell real estate in this market. You buy in this market."
"Thank you." I put my foot on the bench and looked out to sea. "What did you want to speak to me about?"
"Oh, yeah. This grand jury thing. They convened last Monday."
"I read that."
"Yeah. Fucking Ferragamo likes to talk to the press. Anyway, they'll indict me for murder in two, three weeks."
"Maybe they won't."
He thought that was funny. "Yeah. Maybe the Pope is Jewish."
"But he wears a cross."
"Anyway, I don't know if you know how these things work. Okay, the U.S. Attorney gets his indictment from the grand jury. It comes down sealed, you know, and it's not going to be made public until the bust is made. So the U.S. Attorney takes his indictment to a federal judge, along with his arrest warrant, which he wants signed. Now this will usually go down on a Monday, you know, so they get the FBI guys out early on Tuesday morning, and they come for you, you know, they knock on your door about six, seven o'clock. Understand?" "No. I do tax work."
"Well, they come for you early so they usually find you home, you know, with your pants down, like in Russia. Capisce?"
"Why Tuesday?"
"Well, Tuesday is a good day for the news. You know? Monday is bad, Friday is bad, and forget the weekend. You think fucking Ferragamo is stupid?" I almost laughed. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah. This is serious stuff, Counsellor."
"Arrests for murder aren't made to coincide with the news." Now it was his turn to laugh. Haw, haw, haw. He added, "Grow up" That pissed me off a little, but I let it slide, because this was interesting. I said, "But they could arrest you Wednesday or Thursday. Those are hot news days."
"Oh, yeah. They could. But they like Tuesday for the big fish. This way they can make the Wednesday papers, too, and maybe a little Thursday action. What if they came for you on Thursday and you weren't home, and they got you Friday? They'd be fucked, news wise."
"Okay. So they arrest you on a Tuesday. What's the point?" "Okay. So they pick you up, they take you down to Federal Plaza, the FBI office, you know, and they jerk you around there awhile, give everybody a good look at you, then they get you over to Foley Square, the federal court, right? And the FBI guys bring you in with cuffs about nine, ten o'clock, and by this time Ferragamo's got half the fucking newspeople in the world there, and everybody's shoving microphones in your face, and the cameras are rolling. Then you get printed and booked, blah, blah, blah, and at about that time is when they let you call your attorney." He looked at me. "Understand?" "What if your attorney is in, say, Cuba?"
"He ain't gonna be. In fact, I don't have to call him. Because he's coming over to my place for coffee about five in the morning for the next few Tuesdays." "I see."
"Yeah. So when the FBI comes, then my attorney is right there to see that everything is done right, that the FBI guys behave. And my attorney gets in my car with Lenny and follows me to Federal Plaza, then to Foley Square. My attorney is not in Cuba, or no place except with his client. Capisce?" I nodded. "Also, my attorney has a briefcase, and in that briefcase is cash and property deeds, and other shit that he needs to post bail for his client. My attorney will be given about four or five million dollars to post." "You're not going to get out on bail on a federal murder charge, Frank, not for any amount of money."
"Wrong. Listen carefully. My attorney is going to convince the judge that Frank Bellarosa is a responsible man, a man who has strong ties to the community, a man who has sixteen legitimate businesses to look after, a man who has a house, a wife, and kids. My attorney will tell the judge that his client has never been convicted of a violent crime, and that he knew the FBI was coming for him and was waiting for them, and came along peacefully. My attorney was a witness to that. My attorney will tell the judge that he knows Mr Bellarosa personally, as a friend, and that he knows Mrs Bellarosa, and in fact my attorney lives next door to Mr and Mrs Bellarosa, and my attorney is making a personal guarantee that Mr Bellarosa will not flee the jurisdiction. Understand?" Indeed I did.