She replied, "I thought I'd give it to them as our housewarming gift."

I shook my head.

"They would appreciate it, John. Italians love art."

"Sure.'' I cocked my head toward the Sacred Heart of Jesus print on the wall. "Listen, Susan, that is much too extravagant. It could take you months to complete a canvas. And you never never gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple." gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple."

"He commissioned it. This is a different situation. I want want to paint Alhambra's palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favor for the stable." to paint Alhambra's palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favor for the stable."

"No, I'm all evened up with him on favors-I gave him free advice. And I'll give you some free advice-don't get involved."

"I don't feel we have repaid the favor, and if I want to-" don't feel we have repaid the favor, and if I want to-"

"What happened to the Casa Bellarosa sign in mother-of-pearl? Better yet, why don't you bake them a cake? No-maybe that's not a good idea. How about a bushel of horse manure for his garden?"

"Are you finished?"

"No."

But before we could have a fight, Mr. Frank Bellarosa burst through the swinging door, rear end first, carrying a big electric coffee urn. "Okay, here's the coffee.'' He set the urn on the sideboard and plugged it in. "We got espresso, too, if anybody wants.'' He took the seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of capella. "You try this yet?'' he asked me.

"No,'' I replied, "but I know that it's made from the nicciole nut."

"Yeah. Like a hazelnut. How'd you know that?"

I smiled at Susan and answered Bellarosa. "I read the label." "Oh, yeah.'' He took some roasted coffee beans out of the dish and dropped two into Susan's glass and two into mine. He said, "You either put no beans in, or you put three. Never more and never less."

Damned if I was going to ask him why, but Susan bit. "Why?'' she asked.

"Tradition,'' Bellarosa replied. "No-superstition,'' he admitted with a soft chuckle. "The Italians are very superstitious. The three beans are for good luck."

"That's fascinating,'' Susan said.

Actually, it was bullshit. I asked Bellarosa, "Are you superstitious?"

He smiled. "I believe in good luck and bad luck. Don't you?"

"No,'' I replied, "I'm a Christian."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything,'' I informed him.

"Yeah?'' He thought a moment, then said, "Yeah, I know what you're saying. But with the Italians, you got evil omens, evil signs, good omens, three coins in the fountain, three beans in the sambuca, and all that stuff."

"That's pagan,'' I said.

He nodded. "Yeah. But you got to respect it. You just don't know.'' He looked at me. "You just don't know.'' He changed the subject. "Anyway, I got no cappuccino. I bought a beautiful machine direct from a restaurant when I was in Naples a few months ago. I had it shipped, but I think it got swiped at Kennedy. The guy in Naples says he sent it, and I believe him, so I asked around Kennedy, and nobody knows nothing. Right? And the Feds complain about organized crime there. You think organized crime steals coffee machines? No. I'll tell you who steals there-the melanzane melanzane.'' He looked at Susan. "Capisce?" "Capisce?"

"The eggplants?"

Bellarosa smiled. "Yeah. The eggplants. The blacks. And the Spanish, and the punk airport rent-a-cops. They They steal. But whenever there's a problem anyplace, it's organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It's steal. But whenever there's a problem anyplace, it's organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It's dis disorganized crime that's screwing up this country. The hopheads and the crazies. Capisce?" Capisce?" He looked at both of us. He looked at both of us.

I was, finally, at a loss for words after this bizarre monologue, so what could I say but, "Capish."

Bellarosa laughed. "Ca-peesh. Have another.'' He filled my glass with sambuca, and I tried the word again, but this time in my mind. Capisce. Capisce.

Susan, who as I said is a little naive in some ways, asked the head of New York's largest crime family, "Did you report the theft to customs?"

"Sure.'' Bellarosa chuckled. "That's all I need. Right? The papers get hold of that story and they'd laugh me out of town."

"What do you mean?'' Susan asked.

Bellarosa shot me a glance, then said to Susan, "They think I steal from the airport."

"Oh, I see. That would would be ironic." be ironic."

"Yeah. Ironic.'' Bellarosa sipped his capella delicately. "Ah. Very nice.'' He looked at Susan. "My wife's coming. She has to make sure everything is perfect. I said to her, 'Relax. These are our neighbors. They're good people.'" He looked at me. "But you know how women are. Everything's a big deal. Right?"

"No comment,'' I replied wisely. Just then the swinging door opened. I adjusted my eyeglasses and prepared to stand, but it was not Mrs. Bellarosa. It was a homely young woman in a plain black dress and a maid's apron, carrying a tray. She placed the tray on the sideboard, then set the table with cups and saucers, silverware, napkins, and such. She turned and left wordlessly, with no bow, curtsy, or even an Italian salute.

Bellarosa said, "That's Filomena. She's from the other side."

"The other side of what?'' I inquired.

"The other side. Italy. She doesn't speak much English, which is all right with me. But these paesan' paesan' pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language.'' He added, "Poor Filomena, she's so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn't learn English, I'd give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I'll have to find somebody blind for her." pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language.'' He added, "Poor Filomena, she's so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn't learn English, I'd give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I'll have to find somebody blind for her."

I looked at Bellarosa. This was indeed the don, the padrone, padrone, in his element, running people's lives for them, being both cruel and generous. in his element, running people's lives for them, being both cruel and generous.

Susan asked him, "Do you speak Italian?"

He made a little motion with his hand. "Cosi, cosi.'' "Cosi, cosi.'' He added, "I get by. The He added, "I get by. The Napoletan' Napoletan' understand me. That's what I am. understand me. That's what I am. Napoletano. Napoletano. But the But the Sicilian Sicilian'-the Sicilians-who can understand them? They're not Italian.'' He asked Susan, "Where did you learn Italian?"

"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 expression 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 neighborhood 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?" 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 could 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 pajamas. They were sort of an iridescent orange, but the color 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 three-way-bulb women-100-watt, 70-watt, and 30-watt. After that you had your nightlight-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 neighbors 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 new 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 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.

Anna Bellarosa told us all about her three sons in detail, then added, "I don't want them in the family business, but Tony-that's the one at La Salle-wants to be in business with his father. He idolizes his father."

Frank Bellarosa said, "I got into the family business through my uncle. My father said, 'Stay out of that business, Frank. It's not good for you.' But did I listen? No. Why? I thought my uncle was a hero. He always had money, cars, clothes, women. My father had nothing. Kids look for what you call role models. Right? I think back now, and my father was the hero. He broke his tail six days a week to put food on the table. There were five kids and things were tough. But all around us was money. In America you see too much money. The country is rich, even stupid people can be rich here. So people say, 'Why can't I be rich?' In this country if you're poor, you're worse worse than a criminal.'' He looked at me and repeated, "In America if you're poor, you're than a criminal.'' He looked at me and repeated, "In America if you're poor, you're worse worse than a criminal. You're nobody." than a criminal. You're nobody."

"Well,'' I said, "some people would still rather be poor but honest."

"I don't know nobody like that. But anyway, my oldest guy, Frankie, he's got no head for the family business, so I sent him to college, then set him up in a little thing of his own in Jersey. Tommy is the one in Cornell. He wants to run a big hotel in Atlantic City or Vegas. I'll set him up with Frankie in Atlantic City. Tony, the one at La Salle, is another case. He wants in.'' Bellarosa smiled. "The little punk wants my job. You know what? If he wants it bad enough, he'll have it."

I cleared my throat and observed, "It's not easy to bring up kids today with all the sex, violence, drugs, Nintendo."

"Yeah. But sex is okay. How about your kids?"

Susan replied, "Carolyn is at Yale, and Edward is graduating from St. Paul's in June."

"They gonna be lawyers?"

Susan replied, "Carolyn is pre-law. Edward is somewhat vague. I think because he knows he will inherit a good deal of money from his grandparents, he has lost some of his motivation."

I've never heard Susan say this to anyone, not even me, and I was a bit annoyed at her for revealing family secrets in front of these people. But I suppose the Bellarosas were so far beyond our social circle that it didn't matter. Still, I felt I had to say something in Edward's defense. I said, "Edward is a typical seventeen-year-old boy. His main ambition at the moment is to get-is girls."

Bellarosa laughed. "Yeah.'' He asked, "He's graduating college at seventeen?"

"No,'' I replied. "St. Paul's is a prep school.'' Talking to these people was like reinventing the wheel. I asked Bellarosa, "Did you go to La Salle on scholarship?"

"No. My uncle paid. The uncle who took me into the family business. One less mouth to feed for my old man."

"I see."

Anna had another wifely complaint. "Frank spends too much time at work. He's not enjoying his new house. Even when he's home, he's on the phone, people come here to talk business. I'm always telling him, 'Frank, take it easy. You're going to kill yourself.'"

I glanced at Bellarosa to see if he appreciated the irony of that last remark, but he seemed impassive. For about half a second I thought I had made a terrible mistake and that Mr. Frank Bellarosa was just an overworked entrepreneur.

Susan chimed in, "John doesn't keep long office hours, but he brings home a briefcase briefcase full of work every night. Though he does take Saturdays off, and of course he won't work on the Sabbath." full of work every night. Though he does take Saturdays off, and of course he won't work on the Sabbath."