THE GOLD COAST.

by Nelson DeMille.

Acknowledgments.

I wish to thank Daniel and Ellen Barbiero for sharing with me their invaluable insights into Gold Coast life, and also Audrey Randall Whiting for sharing with me her knowledge of Gold Coast history.

I would also like to acknowledge my gratitude to Harry Mariani for his generous hospitality and support.

I also want to thank Pam Carletta for her tireless and professional work on the manuscript for this book.

And once again, my deepest gratitude to Ginny DeMille, editor, publicist, and good friend.

A man lives not only his personal life as an individual, but also, consciously or unconsciously, the life of his epoch and his contemporaries.

-THOMAS MANN

The Magic Mountain

Foreword.

I was born in New York City, and when I was four years old, my family moved to nearby Long Island. My father was one of the many post-World War II builders to come out to Long Island from the city to help create a new suburban frontier. New York City's teeming population of eight million was ready to spill out of the five boroughs and pour into the farms and villages of old Long Island. In 1946, Arthur Levit began building 15,000 homes on what had once been potato fields and meadows, the largest single subdivision ever created. By the late 1950s, over a million people had transformed much of Long Island from rural to suburban.

As a kid, I'd ride around the unpaved roads of the new housing tracts with my father in one of his army surplus jeeps, and even at that young age, I think I understood that one way of life was passing away and another was beginning. Long Island's Dutch and English history goes back to the early 1600s, and there was much that should have been saved and preserved. But in the rush to provide housing to returning veterans and their baby boomer families, questions of land use and landmark preservation were rarely addressed.

First, the farms fell to the builders, then the forests, and gradually the grand estates of Long Island's North Shore-the Gold Coast-began to be divided by the surveyors, and the great houses began falling to the wrecker's ball. Much of the visible evidence of the golden age on Long Island, spanning from the end of the Civil War to the stock market crash of 1929, was disappearing as housing tracts covered fields and woodlands where ladies and gentlemen once rode to hounds and hundred-room mansions were either deserted, razed, or used to house institutions.

By the 1970s, the acceleration of the destruction had slowed, and efforts were being made to preserve the estates as parks, museums, or nature conservancies.

This was the Long Island I knew growing up, but I was only dimly aware of the history of the Gold Coast-that is, until 1962, when in college I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. The Great Gatsby.

Gatsby is not only an entertaining story, but also a fascinating piece of social history, a peek into the loves, lives, and tragedies of the people who lived in that special time and place, the Gold Coast of Long Island during the Jazz Age. is not only an entertaining story, but also a fascinating piece of social history, a peek into the loves, lives, and tragedies of the people who lived in that special time and place, the Gold Coast of Long Island during the Jazz Age.

As I read Gatsby Gatsby in 1962, I was struck by the fact that the story took place only a few miles from where I was going to college and from where I grew up. Also, the time distance between the stock market crash of October 1929 and my freshman year of college was thirty-three years-eons for me, but not for my parents or some of my teachers, who had lived through the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression. Yet it seemed to me that most people spoke very little about the 1920s, and only a bit more about the depression. The defining years of their lives seemed to have been World War II. In retrospect, the years between World War I and the end of World War II were so crammed with momentous and earth-shattering events that, as one of my history teachers put it, "These thirty years produced more history than the average person could consume." in 1962, I was struck by the fact that the story took place only a few miles from where I was going to college and from where I grew up. Also, the time distance between the stock market crash of October 1929 and my freshman year of college was thirty-three years-eons for me, but not for my parents or some of my teachers, who had lived through the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression. Yet it seemed to me that most people spoke very little about the 1920s, and only a bit more about the depression. The defining years of their lives seemed to have been World War II. In retrospect, the years between World War I and the end of World War II were so crammed with momentous and earth-shattering events that, as one of my history teachers put it, "These thirty years produced more history than the average person could consume."

So, although the 1920s were in many ways a turning point in American history, there were other turning points, so that the Jazz Age, the Roaring Twenties, the Age of Prohibition, while not forgotten, were to some extent eclipsed by subsequent events.

Early in my writing career, I decided I wanted to write a Gatsbyesque novel. I began searching for similar novels written during the period or afterward, and I was surprised at how few I was able to turn up, other than "gangster books."

On reflection, I decided that a novel set entirely in the 1920s might not be well received by the reading public, so I decided to write a generational generational novel, which began on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, and continued to the present. My book was going to center on Long Island as the "cradle of aviation," and the cast of characters in this huge book would include cameo appearances by Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Glenn Curtiss, Leroy Grumman, and a host of other aviation greats. The project was breathtaking in its scope and entirely too ambitious for a lazy writer. novel, which began on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, and continued to the present. My book was going to center on Long Island as the "cradle of aviation," and the cast of characters in this huge book would include cameo appearances by Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Glenn Curtiss, Leroy Grumman, and a host of other aviation greats. The project was breathtaking in its scope and entirely too ambitious for a lazy writer.

But the 1920s still fascinated me, and one day someone said, "Examine the pieces of the Crash. Examine the Crash site." In other words, write a contemporary novel set on the old Gold Coast amid the remaining mansions and estates and the crumbling ruins. This seemed to be the best and most workable idea.

But what kind of story did I want to tell? Obviously, I needed old WASP families, some down on their luck, some doing well. I needed to examine the old morals, manners, and mores that still hung on, and compare and contrast them to the new ways, the new suburban America that lay just beyond the hedgerows of the once-grand estates.

I knew the ingredients, the formula, but when I put it together, it still had no heat, no light, no spark. There was something missing and, finally, a chance piece in a local newspaper provided the missing element: the Mafia.

The more successful of the organized crime families had for years been taking up residence on the Gold Coast, and now the entire theme of my proposed novel took form: The Godfather The Godfather meets meets The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby on the Gold Coast. My wife, my agent, and I were sitting in my living room, and we were there to finalize the concept, plot, characters of on the Gold Coast. My wife, my agent, and I were sitting in my living room, and we were there to finalize the concept, plot, characters of The Gold Coast The Gold Coast book-this is called a story conference, and it's either a lot of fun or it's pretty grim. I began the conversation with those ten words: " book-this is called a story conference, and it's either a lot of fun or it's pretty grim. I began the conversation with those ten words: "The Godfather meets meets The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby on the Gold Coast." Everyone stayed silent for a few seconds, then my agent, Nick Ellison, said, "That's it. You got it." My wife Ginny, a former English teacher, said, "I love it." We all got up and went out for a drink. The next day, Nick called the publisher and gave her the same ten words. She said, "That's it. Go for it." on the Gold Coast." Everyone stayed silent for a few seconds, then my agent, Nick Ellison, said, "That's it. You got it." My wife Ginny, a former English teacher, said, "I love it." We all got up and went out for a drink. The next day, Nick called the publisher and gave her the same ten words. She said, "That's it. Go for it."

And thus, a novel was conceived, but it was still a long way from being born.

I won't go into detail about the writing process or the research, but suffice it to say, I knew a good number of the people in my novel. And those I didn't know personally or intimately, I knew of of. This was, after all, if not my my backyard, it was my backyard, it was my neighbor's neighbor's backyard. I did not grow up backyard. I did not grow up on on the North Shore of Long Island, the Gold Coast, but I grew up the North Shore of Long Island, the Gold Coast, but I grew up near near it, and had come to know it by osmosis and by brief contact. Thus, by my forty-fifth year when I began writing it, and had come to know it by osmosis and by brief contact. Thus, by my forty-fifth year when I began writing The Gold Coast The Gold Coast, this lost world that had seemed to me in 1962 so distant in time and place had become strangely closer, reminding me of the famous last line of Gatsby- Gatsby-"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

The reaction to the book when it was published in 1990 was interesting. It wasn't a "DeMille" book; that is, it wasn't an action adventure tale. It was, in fact, a serious novel, but some people had trouble making the mental transition. In fact, my own publishing company, in press releases and ads, called it a "thriller." This would be like calling the The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby or or The Godfather The Godfather a thriller. Some reviewers were confused, some didn't get it at all, and some ignored the book. The publishers had second thoughts about DeMille doing a non-DeMille book, and they put out a relatively modest number of hardcovers. Some astute reviewers, however, compared a thriller. Some reviewers were confused, some didn't get it at all, and some ignored the book. The publishers had second thoughts about DeMille doing a non-DeMille book, and they put out a relatively modest number of hardcovers. Some astute reviewers, however, compared The Gold Coast The Gold Coast favorably to Tom Wolfe's then-recent bestseller, favorably to Tom Wolfe's then-recent bestseller, The Bonfire of the Vanities The Bonfire of the Vanities. Other reviewers said it was far better than Bonfire. Bonfire. One major review even suggested that it was better than its granddaddy, One major review even suggested that it was better than its granddaddy, The Great Gatsby. The Great Gatsby.

But with the ads and press releases sending out mixed signals, confused reviews written by people who read the press releases and not the novel, and the modest printing, the book was not a hardcover phenomenon, despite the Book-of-the-Month Club featuring it as a Main Selection, and despite a significant movie deal. Eventually, featuring it as a Main Selection, and despite a significant movie deal. Eventually, The Gold Coast The Gold Coast was translated into all major foreign languages, although the title was changed because the Gold Coast in much of Europe and the world refers to the African Gold Coast. was translated into all major foreign languages, although the title was changed because the Gold Coast in much of Europe and the world refers to the African Gold Coast.

So, with mixed reviews and modest sales, I started to write my next novel, The General's Daughter The General's Daughter, a murder mystery, and, I hoped, a book that would not confuse anyone.

But then strange and wonderful things started to happen-I began to hear from the actual reading public. Fan letters from bookstore owners, college professors, students, men, and more significantly, women, who had not been my primary readers, letters from people of all age groups and all social strata and from all parts of the country. (Some marketing and sales people had predicted that The Gold Coast The Gold Coast wouldn't "play west of the Hudson.") I had never gotten so many letters in twenty years of writing. More important than quantity was the quality of the letters-passionate, intellectual, funny, and interestingly, sad. Many people said they cried at the end. What more can an author ask for? wouldn't "play west of the Hudson.") I had never gotten so many letters in twenty years of writing. More important than quantity was the quality of the letters-passionate, intellectual, funny, and interestingly, sad. Many people said they cried at the end. What more can an author ask for?

But much of the positive reaction to The Gold Coast The Gold Coast came too late to influence the course of the hardcover. I took some comfort in recalling that came too late to influence the course of the hardcover. I took some comfort in recalling that The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby also had mixed reviews and poor sales when it was first published in 1925. also had mixed reviews and poor sales when it was first published in 1925.

But, like Gatsby, The Gold Coast Gatsby, The Gold Coast was not fated to die or be buried. It was to be published in paperback in March of 1991, and the groundswell of readers who'd made the hardcover almost an underground classic now burst out into bookstores and airports, and wherever paperback racks exist. Within weeks, sales of was not fated to die or be buried. It was to be published in paperback in March of 1991, and the groundswell of readers who'd made the hardcover almost an underground classic now burst out into bookstores and airports, and wherever paperback racks exist. Within weeks, sales of The Gold Coast The Gold Coast were close to a million, and now, some six years later, the book is still in print, and has gone on to sell millions more. were close to a million, and now, some six years later, the book is still in print, and has gone on to sell millions more.

In addition to retail sales, The Gold Coast The Gold Coast has experienced some interesting institutional sales. When the Republican National Committee met on Long Island prior to the 1996 presidential campaign, their local hosts included in all welcome packets a copy of has experienced some interesting institutional sales. When the Republican National Committee met on Long Island prior to the 1996 presidential campaign, their local hosts included in all welcome packets a copy of The Gold Coast. The Gold Coast.

College and university sales have shown a steady rise over the years as instructors assign The Gold Coast The Gold Coast as required and suggested reading. Some instructors have written saying they assign it as companion reading to as required and suggested reading. Some instructors have written saying they assign it as companion reading to Gatsby. Gatsby. Other instructors in creative writing courses have told me they assign it by itself, or with Tom Wolfe's Other instructors in creative writing courses have told me they assign it by itself, or with Tom Wolfe's Bonfire, Bonfire, as one of the few modern and noteworthy examples of social satire, manners, and mores. as one of the few modern and noteworthy examples of social satire, manners, and mores.

And finally, in the Fodor's Guide to Long Island, Fodor's Guide to Long Island, under the topic of suggested further reading, is under the topic of suggested further reading, is The Gold Coast. The Gold Coast.

An author looks at sales not simply as money in the bank, but as approval-why do we write except to be read? The more an author sells, the more people there are who are reading the author, obviously. And so, while the somewhat delayed commercial success of The Gold Coast The Gold Coast was nice, it was really the vindication of the book that made me feel good as a writer. It was, ultimately, not the hype-masters, the sales or ad people, or the reviewers who made the book successful, it was the word of mouth of bookstore owners and clerks, and the buying and reading public who put was nice, it was really the vindication of the book that made me feel good as a writer. It was, ultimately, not the hype-masters, the sales or ad people, or the reviewers who made the book successful, it was the word of mouth of bookstore owners and clerks, and the buying and reading public who put The Gold Coast The Gold Coast on the paperback bestseller list, and who have kept it on the shelves for all these years, and hopefully for years to come. on the paperback bestseller list, and who have kept it on the shelves for all these years, and hopefully for years to come.

But what is it about this novel, this story, that has so captured the imagination and tickled the fancies of so many readers, not only in America, but worldwide? This is hard to answer, except to say that the story is a universal one: it is first a love story, but also a story of of America, how we were, where we are, and maybe where we're going. It's a story, too, that combines those delicious ingredients of lust, sex, and coveting your neighbor's wife-all in a spicy dish. It is a novel that touches on some primal fears and needs, such as the territorial imperative, the threat and use of violence, the battle between good and evil, of right and wrong. America, how we were, where we are, and maybe where we're going. It's a story, too, that combines those delicious ingredients of lust, sex, and coveting your neighbor's wife-all in a spicy dish. It is a novel that touches on some primal fears and needs, such as the territorial imperative, the threat and use of violence, the battle between good and evil, of right and wrong.

These various themes are examined and seen through the eyes of the narrator, John Sutter, whose self-deprecating and rueful sense of humor lightens the story at critical junctures.

I believe also that there is a great affinity, duality, if you will, between the demise of the "old" Mafia and the old-money WASP world portrayed in The Great Gatsby. The Great Gatsby. Both groups are on the far side of their Belle Epoch, or clinging to the remnants of their Belle Epoch. Some say a new America is emerging that has not room for, nor tolerance of, organized crime on the one hand, and inherited money and privelege on the other. That's not true. What is true is that other groups are getting more of the apple pie. In America, more than just about anywhere else on this planet, "the more things change, the more they remain the same"; I truly believe Both groups are on the far side of their Belle Epoch, or clinging to the remnants of their Belle Epoch. Some say a new America is emerging that has not room for, nor tolerance of, organized crime on the one hand, and inherited money and privelege on the other. That's not true. What is true is that other groups are getting more of the apple pie. In America, more than just about anywhere else on this planet, "the more things change, the more they remain the same"; I truly believe The Gold Coast The Gold Coast can be read seventy years from now, and it will be as understandable then as the seventy-year-old can be read seventy years from now, and it will be as understandable then as the seventy-year-old Gatsby Gatsby is today. is today.

So that's my intro, which hopefully answers many of the questions that my readers have asked over the years. If you're a new reader of The Gold Coast, The Gold Coast, I hope you enjoy the story. If you're re-reading this book-like the eighty-year-old gentleman who told me he's read it ten times and still finds something new in it-I hope you, too, find something new and thought-provoking this time around. I hope you enjoy the story. If you're re-reading this book-like the eighty-year-old gentleman who told me he's read it ten times and still finds something new in it-I hope you, too, find something new and thought-provoking this time around.

Nelson DeMille Long Island, New York

Part I

The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem....-Walt Whitman Preface to Leaves of Grass Leaves of Grass

One.

I first met Frank Bellarosa on a sunny Saturday in April at Hicks' Nursery, an establishment that has catered to the local gentry for over a hundred years. We were both wheeling red wagons filled with plants, fertilizers, and such toward our cars across the gravel parking field. He called out to me, "Mr. Sutter? John Sutter, right?"

I regarded the man approaching, dressed in baggy work pants and a blue sweatshirt. At first, I thought it was a nurseryman, but then as he drew closer, I recognized his face from newspapers and television.

Frank Bellarosa is not the sort of celebrity you would like to meet by chance, or in any other way, for that matter. He is a uniquely American celebrity, a gangster actually. A man like Bellarosa would be on the run in some parts of the world, and in the presidential palace in others, but here in America, he exists in that place that is aptly called the underworld. He is an unindicted and unconvicted felon as well as a citizen and a taxpayer. He is what federal prosecutors mean when they tell parolees not to "consort with known criminals."

So, as this notorious underworld character approached, I could not for the life of me guess how he knew me or what he wanted or why he was extending his hand toward me. Nevertheless, I did take his hand and said, "Yes, I'm John Sutter."

"My name's Frank Bellarosa. I'm your new neighbor."

What? I think my face remained impassive, but I may have twitched. "Oh,'' I said, "that's ...'' Pretty awful. I think my face remained impassive, but I may have twitched. "Oh,'' I said, "that's ...'' Pretty awful.

"Yeah. Good to meet you."

So my new neighbor and I chatted a minute or two and noted each other's purchases. He had tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and basil. I had impatiens and marigolds. Mr. Bellarosa suggested that I should plant something I could eat. I told him I ate marigolds and my wife ate impatiens. He found that funny.

In parting, we shook hands without any definite plans to see each other again, and I got into my Ford Bronco.

It was the most mundane of circumstances, but as I started my engine, I experienced an uncustomary flash into the future, and I did not like what I saw.

Two.

I left the nursery and headed home.

Perhaps it would be instructive to understand the neighborhood into which Mr. Frank Bellarosa had chosen to move himself and his family. It is quite simply the best neighborhood in America, making Beverly Hills or Shaker Heights, for instance, seem like tract housing.

It is not a neighborhood in the urban or suburban sense, but a collection of colonial-era villages and grand estates on New York's Long Island. The area is locally known as the North Shore and known nationally and internationally as the Gold Coast, though even realtors would not say that aloud.

It is an area of old money, old families, old social graces, and old ideas about who should be allowed to vote, not to mention who should be allowed to own land. The Gold Coast is not a pastoral Jeffersonian democracy.

The nouveau riche, who need new housing and who comprehend what this place is all about, are understandably cowed when in the presence of a great mansion that has come on the market as a result of unfortunate financial difficulties. They may back off and buy something on the South Shore where they can feel better about themselves, or if they decide to buy a piece of the Gold Coast, they do so with great trepidation, knowing they are going to be miserable and that they had better not try to borrow a cup of Johnnie Walker Black from the people in the next mansion.

But a man like Frank Bellarosa, I thought, would be ignorant of the celestial beings and great social icebergs who would surround him, completely unknowing of the hallowed ground on which he was treading.

Or, if Frank Bellarosa was aware, perhaps he didn't care, which was far more interesting. He struck me, in the few minutes we spoke, as a man with a primitive sort of elan, somewhat like a conquering soldier from an inferior civilization who has quartered himself in the great villa of a vanquished nobleman.

Bellarosa had, as he indicated, purchased the estate next to mine. My place is called Stanhope Hall; his place is called Alhambra. The big houses around here have names, not numbers, but in a spirit of cooperation with the United States Post Office, my full address does include a street, Grace Lane, and an incorporated village, Lattingtown. I have a zip code that I, like many of my neighbors, rarely use, employing instead the old designation of Long Island, so my address goes like this: Stanhope Hall, Grace Lane, Lattingtown, Long Island, New York. I get my mail.

My wife, Susan, and I don't actually live in in Stanhope Hall, which is a massive fifty-room beaux-arts heap of Vermont granite, for which the heating bills alone would wipe me out by February. We live in the guesthouse, a more modest fifteen-room structure built at the turn of the century in the style of an English manor house. This guesthouse along with ten acres of Stanhope's total two hundred acres were deeded to my wife as a wedding present from her parents. However, our mail actually goes to the gatehouse, a more modest six-room affair of stone, occupied by George and Ethel Allard. Stanhope Hall, which is a massive fifty-room beaux-arts heap of Vermont granite, for which the heating bills alone would wipe me out by February. We live in the guesthouse, a more modest fifteen-room structure built at the turn of the century in the style of an English manor house. This guesthouse along with ten acres of Stanhope's total two hundred acres were deeded to my wife as a wedding present from her parents. However, our mail actually goes to the gatehouse, a more modest six-room affair of stone, occupied by George and Ethel Allard.

The Allards are what are called family retainers, which means they used to work, but don't do much anymore. George was the former estate manager here, employed by my wife's father, William, and her grandfather, Augustus. My wife is a Stanhope. The great fifty-room hall is abandoned now, and George is sort of caretaker for the whole two-hundred-acre estate. He and Ethel live in the gatehouse for free, having displaced the gatekeeper and his wife, who were let go back in the fifties. George does what he can with limited family funds. His work ethic remains strong, though his old body does not. Susan and I find we are helping the Allards more than they help us, a situation that is not uncommon around here. George and Ethel concentrate mostly on the gate area, keeping the hedges trimmed, the wrought-iron gate painted, clipping the ivy on the estate walls and the gatehouse, and replanting the flower beds in the spring. The rest of the estate is in God's hands until further notice.

I turned off Grace Lane and pulled up the gravel drive to the gates, which are usually left open for our convenience, as this is our only access to Grace Lane and the wide world around us.

George ambled over, wiping his hands on his green work pants. He opened my door before I could and said, "Good morning, sir."

George is from the old school, a remnant of that small class of professional servants that flourished so briefly in our great democracy. I can be a snob on occasion, but George's obsequiousness sometimes makes me uneasy. My wife, who was born into money, thinks nothing of it and makes nothing of it. I opened the back of the Bronco and said, "Give me a hand?"

"Certainly, sir, certainly. Here, you let me do that.'' He took the flats of marigolds and impatiens and laid them on the grass beside the gravel drive. He said, "They look real good this year, Mr. Sutter. You got some nice stuff. I'll get these planted 'round the gate pillars there, then I'll help you with your place."

"I can do that. How is Mrs. Allard this morning?"

"She's very well, Mr. Sutter, and it's nice of you to ask."

My conversations with George are always somewhat stilted, except when George has a few drinks in him.

George was born on the Stanhope estate some seventy years ago and has childhood memories of the Roaring Twenties, the Great Crash, and the waning of the Golden Era throughout the 1930s. There were still parties, debutante balls, regattas, and polo matches after the Crash of '29, but as George once said to me in a maudlin moment, "The heart was gone from everybody. They lost confidence in themselves, and the war finished off the good times."

I know all that from history books and through a sort of osmosis that one experiences by living here. But George has more detailed and personal information on the history of the Gold Coast, and when he's had a few, he'll tell you stories about the great families: who used to screw whom, who shot whom in a jealous rage, and who shot themselves in despair. There was, and to some extent still is, a servants' network here, where that sort of information is the price of admission to servants' get-togethers in the kitchens of the remaining great houses, in the gatehouses, and in the local working man's pubs. It's sort of an American Upstairs, Downstairs Upstairs, Downstairs around here, and God only knows what they say about Susan and me. around here, and God only knows what they say about Susan and me.

But if discretion is not one of George's virtues, loyalty is, and in fact I once overheard him tell a tree pruner that the Sutters were good people to work for. In fact, he doesn't work for me, but for Susan's parents, William and Charlotte Stanhope, who are retired in Hilton Head and are trying to unload Stanhope Hall before it pulls them under. But that's another story.

Ethel Allard is also another story. Though always correct and pleasant, there is a seething class anger there, right below the surface. I have no doubt that if someone raised the red flag, Ethel Allard would arm herself with a cobblestone from the walkway and make her way toward my house. Ethel's father, from what I gather, was a successful shopkeeper of some sort in the village who was ruined by bad investment advice from his rich customers and further ruined by the failure of those customers to pay him what they owed him for goods delivered. They didn't pay him because they, too, had been financially ruined. This was in 1929, of course, and nothing has been the same around here since. It was as though, I suppose, the rich had broken faith with the lower classes by going broke and killing themselves with alcohol, bullets, and leaps from windows, or simply disappearing, leaving their houses, their debts, and their honor behind. It's hard to feel sorry for the rich, I know, and I can see Ethel's point of view.

But here it is, some sixty years after the Great Crash, and maybe it's time to examine some of the wreckage.

If this place doesn't sound quite like America, I assure you it is; only the externals and the landscape are a bit different.

George was talking. "So, like I was saying the other day, Mr. Sutter, some kids got into the Hall a few nights ago and had themselves a party-"

"Was there much damage?"

"Not too much. Lots of liquor bottles, and I found a bunch of those ... things-"

"Condoms."

He nodded. "So, I cleaned it all up and replaced the plywood on the window they got in. But I'd like to get some sheet metal."