"Let's see if they accept nine. Don't forget the Iranians." "Fuck them. They're not owners. They're buyers. I only deal with owners. I showed this lawyer that my best offer was his client's best offer. So he's going to make his clients understand that. His clients are not going to know about any more Iranian offers. Capisce?"
"I surely do."
"And now we got a place to swim. I'm gonna let everyone on Grace Lane keep using the beach. And nobody has to worry about a bunch of sand niggers running around wrapped in sheets. Capisce?"
"Do you think you could avoid using that word?"
"Capisce?"
"No, the other word."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Forget it."
He shrugged. "Anyway, you can count on ninety large in a few months. Glad you came?"
"So far." I said to him, "You're obviously not too concerned about facing murder charges, racketeering charges down the line, or possible assassination." "Ah, it's all bullshit."
"It's not, Frank."
"Whaddaya gonna do? You gonna curl up and die? You see a deal, you make a deal.
One thing's got nothing to do with the other."
"Well, but it does."
"Bullshit."
"Just thought I'd mention it." I poured myself more coffee and watched the sun burning through the mist outside the kitchen window. You see a deal. You make a deal. I recalled a story I'd had to read once in history class, up at St Paul's. In the story, two noble Romans were standing on the ramparts of their city, negotiating the price of a piece of land in the distance. The seller extolled the virtues of his land, its fertility, its orchards, and its proximity to the city. The potential buyer did his best to find some faults with the land to get the price down. Finally, they struck a deal. What neither man mentioned during or after the negotiations was that an invading army was camped on the land in question, preparing for an assault on Rome. The moral of this apocryphal story, for Roman schoolboys, and I suppose for modern preppies at St Paul's who were supposed to be sons of the American ruling class, was this: Noble Romans (or noble preppie twits) must show supreme confidence and courage even in the face of death and destruction; one went about one's business without fear and with an abiding belief in the future. Or, as my ancestors would say, "Stiff upper lip." I said to Bellarosa, "I didn't know you'd closed on Stanhope Hall." "Yeah. Last week. Where were you? You don't do legal work for your father-in-law? What kind of son-in-law are you?"
"I thought it would be a conflict of interest if I represented him for that transaction, and you for this matter."
"Yeah? You're always thinkin' about that kind of stuff." He leaned toward me.
"Hey, can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"Your father-in-law is a little hard to take."
I had this utterly irrational mental flash: I could get Bellarosa to have William rubbed out. A contract. A closing. This is from your son-in-law, you son of a bitch. BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Hey, you listening? I said how do you get along with that guy?"
"He lives in South Carolina."
"Yeah. Good thing. Hey, you want to see the painting?"
"I'll wait until it's hung."
"Yeah. We're gonna get some people here. Susan's gonna be the guest of honour."
"Good."
"How's she doin'? Don't see her much anymore."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. She around today? To keep Anna company?"
"I think so. We don't exchange daybooks."
"Yeah? You got a modern wife there. You like that?"
"How's Anna?"
"She's getting used to living here. She has all her crazy relatives drive out, and she shows off now. Donna Anna." He added nonchalantly, "She got over that ghost thing." He smiled at me unpleasantly. "You shouldn't have told her that crazy story." I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry if it upset her." "Yeah? That was a hell of a story. The kids fucking. Madonn'. I told a lot of people that story. But I don't know if I got it right. Then I told it to my guy, Jack Weinstein. He's a smart guy like you. He says it was a book. That you got the story out of a book. It's not a story about Alhambra. Why'd you do that?" "To amuse your wife."
"She wasn't amused."
"Well, then to amuse myself."
"Yeah?" He didn't look too pleased with me. "Somethin' else," he said. "Anna thinks you were the guy who growled at her. Was that you?" "Yes."
"Why'd you do that?"
I pictured myself at the bottom of the reflecting pool wearing concrete slippers unless I had a better answer than 'To amuse myself.' I said, "Look, Frank, that was months ago. Forget it."
"I don't forget nothin'."
True. "Well,- then accept my apology."
"Okay. That I'll do." He added, "And that's more than I usually do." He stared at me, then tapped his forehead. 'Tu sei matto. Capisce?" It helps when they use their hands. I replied, "Capisco."
"You people are all crazy."
We both went back to our newspaper, but after a few minutes of silence, he asked me, "How much am I paying you?"
"Nothing. I'm returning a favour."
"Nah. You already did that by talking to Mancuso. Get me sprung today, and you get fifty large."
"No, I -"
"Take it now, Counsellor, because I might need you later for something, and if they grab all my money under RICO, you ain't gonna get shit." I shrugged. "All right."
"Good. See? You got ninety and fifty already and you ain't even had your breakfast yet." He wagged his finger at me. "And don't forget to report it on your income tax." He laughed.
I managed a smile. Fuck you, Frank.
We spoke about family for a while, and Frank asked me, "Your daughter still in Cuba?"
"Yes."
"If you talk to her, tell her it's number fours."
"Excuse me?"
"Monte Cristo number four. I forgot to tell your son to tell her that. That's the big torpedoes. Number four."
I wasn't going to argue with him about smuggling, so I nodded. He asked me, "Do you think the old lady is going to stay in the gatehouse?" "I advised her to do that."
"Yeah? What would she take to get out?"
"Nothing, Frank. That's her home. Forget that."
He shrugged.
I played with the idea of telling him that William Stanhope had probably contributed money to the Gold Coast Preservation Fund, earmarked for the Stanhope Hall zoning battle. But I couldn't bring myself to reveal a confidence like that. However unethical William's action was, it wasn't illegal, and he'd confided his thoughts in front of me about four minutes before I told him to go fuck himself. But I did ask Bellarosa, "What are you going to do with Stanhope Hall?"
"I dunno. We'll see."
"You could use it to bury bodies."
He smiled.
I asked him, "Where's your son, Tony?" I'd met the little La Salle student the previous week, and he seemed like a sharp kid. He also reminded me of his father in his appearance and mannerisms. Bellarosa seemed very proud of him. I'd taken to calling the kid Little Don, but only in my mind, of course. Bellarosa answered me, "I sent him to his older brother for the rest of the summer."
"Which older brother?"
He looked at me. "It don't matter, and forget you heard that. Understand?" "Absolutely." My Lord, you really had to think before you asked any questions of this man. The rich and famous were like that, of course, and I had wealthy friends who didn't advertise the whereabouts of their children either. But they would tell me if I asked.
He asked me, "Hey, your son still in Florida?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
He smiled again and went back to his paper. He was doing the crossword puzzle. "American writer, first name Norman, six letters… ends in r" "Mailer."
"Never heard of him." He filled in the boxes. "Yeah… that's it. You're a smart guy."
Filomena came into the kitchen, and she really was ugly, kind of hard to take in the morning. She and Frank chatted away in Italian for a few minutes, and I could tell his Italian wasn't good because she was impatient with him. She dragged out all sorts of biscuit tins with Italian writing on them and dumped them on the table. She was giving Bellarosa a hard time about something, then started giving me a hard time.