As I've said, I'd had a premonition that Frank Bellarosa and I would one day go beyond vegetable chatter. But that was as far as my prophecy went. From here on-from the moment I sat there and had that last drink with him instead of leaving-I was on my own.

Looking back on that evening, I recalled that if Susan had told me she had a terrible evening and wanted to avoid the Bellarosas, then I would have done just that. But, incredibly, Lady Stanhope was going to do a painting of Alhambra that would put her into almost daily contact with don and donna Bellarosa. I suppose I should have foreseen the dangers inherent in this situation, and perhaps I did, but instead of demanding of Susan that she withdraw her offer to do a painting, I said nothing. Obviously, we were both responding to Bellarosa's unwanted attention for our own reasons; me, because I saw a challenge and because I wanted to show Susan that her husband was not just a dull attorney and was perhaps a little sinister himself, and Susan because ... well, I didn't know why then, but I found out later.

So, it was a juxtaposition of events-the hayloft incident, the tennis court incident, and the Sutters' post-winter ennui-that had combined with Frank Bellarosa's proximity and his own problems to draw us together. These things happen, as unlikely as it seems, and if ever there was a case to be made for sticking with your own kind, this was it.

But that's all hindsight. That evening, my mind was cloudy, and my good judgment was influenced by my need to prove something. It goes to show you, you shouldn't stay out too late during the week.

Part IV

We will now discuss in a little more detail the Struggle for Existence.-Charles Darwin The Origin of Species

Eighteen

We did not have the Bellarosas to our house the next evening as Anna suggested. In fact, as far as I knew, we had no immediate plans to see them again. Susan is the social secretary in our house and keeps a leather-bound calendar as her mother did. The Stanhopes did, at one time, have an actual social or private secretary, and I suppose the art has been passed down. I'm not very good at social planning, so I suppose I've allowed Susan to take full charge. I don't even think I have veto power anymore, as you might have noticed. So, regarding the Bellarosas, I was waiting for word from my resident Emily Post.

Susan had begun her painting of Alhambra's palm court, and that fact, plus the fact that her horses were still there, took Susan to Alhambra nearly every day. Susan, by the way, had decided on oils instead of water, so I knew this was going to be about a six-week project.

Susan Stanhope Sutter and Mrs. Anna Bellarosa seemed to be forming a tentative relationship, perhaps even a genuine friendship according to Susan. This relationship, I was certain, was encouraged by Frank Bellarosa, who not only wanted his wife to have friends in the area, but also wanted her to get off his back about the move from Brooklyn to this dangerous frontier.

Susan barely mentioned Frank, and I never inquired after him. If I pictured him at all in this threesome, it was as a busy man who watched Susan set up her easel for a few minutes, jollied the two women along, and kept to himself for the rest of the day-or more likely, got into his limo and disappeared into the great city for a day of lawbreaking.

It is very difficult, I imagine, to run a large crime empire, especially since the emperor cannot say much over the telephone or, similarly, cannot send detailed instructions by fax or telex. Personal contact, the spoken word, handshakes, facial expressions, and hand gestures are the only way to run an underground organization, whether it be political or criminal. I recalled that the Mafia supposedly had its origins as an underground resistance organization during some foreign occupation of Sicily. I could certainly believe that, and that would explain why they were such a long-running hit in America. But maybe their act was getting a little old as the second millennium drew to a close. Maybe.

Susan said to me one evening, "I saw the strangest thing next door."

"What?"

"I saw a man kiss Frank's hand."

"Why is that strange? My junior partners kiss my hand every morning."

"Be serious, please. I'll tell you something else. Everyone who enters that house is taken into the coatroom and searched. I can hear that sound that a metal detector makes when it goes off."

"Are you searched?"

"Of course not.'' She asked, "Why is he so paranoid?"

"He's not. People really are out to get him. Why don't you understand that?"

"Well, I suppose I do. But it just seems so bizarre ... I mean, right next door."

"Has Mr. Mancuso spoken to you yet?"

"No. Will he?"

"Perhaps."

But other than that brief conversation, there wasn't much mention of Frank, as I said.

Regarding Anna, Susan was more current. She told me that Anna did not ride horses, play tennis, sail, or engage in any athletic activities. This did not surprise me. Susan tried to get Anna on Yankee, but Anna wouldn't even go near the snorting beast. Anna Bellarosa, however, was interested in painting, as it turned out. According to Susan, Anna watched and asked questions about what Susan was doing. Susan encouraged her to get an easel and paints and offered to give her lessons, but Anna Bellarosa seemed as reluctant to paint as she was to ride, or to try anything new, for that matter. As fond as Susan seemed of the woman, I had the impression she was a bit exasperated by Anna's timidness. I informed Susan, "Her reason for existence is cooking, cleaning, sex, and child care. Don't cause her any anxiety."

"But I have the feeling that her husband would like her to develop new skills."

So would your your husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I'd rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I'd have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about? husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I'd rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I'd have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?

Susan also informed me that Anna had a lot of questions about "how you do things around here.'' But I think these were more Frank's questions than Anna's.

Regarding the haunting of Alhambra, Susan mentioned to me a few days after she began her canvas that Anna had gone to Brooklyn by limousine one morning and returned a few hours later with two priests. "They all looked pretty grim,'' Susan said. "They went around splashing holy water all over the place, and Anna was crossing herself eight times a minute.'' Susan added, "I sort of pretended not to notice, but it was hard to ignore them. Anna said they were blessing the house, but I think there was more to it than that."

"They're very superstitious people,'' I said. "You didn't upset her with any of your ghost stories, did you, Susan?"

"No, of course not. I told her there are no ghosts in Alhambra."

"Well, I'm sure she feels better now that the house is all sprinkled."

"I hope so. They gave me the shivers."

Anyway, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud, and in this case the silver lining was Italian food. Not that Susan was learning how to cook-no, she can no more cook than I can levitate. But she was bringing home a portion of the Bellarosas' evening fare almost every night: Tupperware containers heaped with ravioli, baked ziti, eggplant parmigiana, fried zucchini, and other things with unpronounceable names. I had really struck pay dirt here, and I actually looked forward to dinner at home for the first time in twenty years.

Susan also brought home tomato seedlings and zucchini plants to add to her garden of radicchio, basil, green peppers, and eggplant. She never mentioned this to me, but I saw the new plants one day while I was out walking. Also, all the vegetables were now marked, correctly, I think, so we knew what we were rooting for (pardon the pun). Apparently, too, Susan had picked up some pointers from someone on vegetable gardening, because everything looked healthy, and by the end of May it seemed as though we might have a bumper crop. Stanhope Hall would now be a self-sustaining fiefdom, at least in regard to certain vegetables, and all its inhabitants-all four of us if you count the Allards-would be delivered from the ravages of scurvy and night blindness.

So far, to be honest, the changes in my life that had come about as a result of the cultural contact with the neighboring fiefdom, to continue the metaphor, were for the better. The clash of cultures had not materialized in any significant way, but there was time for that.

I had no doubt that I had established a personal relationship with Frank Bellarosa, but I was not certain of the nature of that relationship; or if I did know, I wasn't letting on to anyone, myself included, what it was. And whatever it was, it seemed to be on hold, because by the end of that month, I had not heard a word from him, directly or indirectly.

As for any business relationship with him, I considered that whole episode in his library as a bit of madness. Surely he must have regretted taking me into his confidence, which was probably why I hadn't heard from him. I mean, he certainly didn't think that he had retained me as his attorney. Right?

On the last Wednesday in May, Susan went to a meeting of the Gazebo Society, held at the old Fox Point waterfront estate at the end of Grace Lane. She mentioned this to me after the fact, and when I asked her if she had invited Anna Bellarosa, she said she had not and offered no explanation.

I knew that this relationship with the Bellarosas was going to be a problem, and I had tried to tell that to Susan. But Susan is not the type who thinks ahead. Everyone, I suppose, had friends, neighbors, or family with whom they'd rather not be seen in public. Much of that feeling is subjective; your goofiest cousin, for instance, may be a hit at your cocktail party. But with the Bellarosas, it was not a matter of my perception or interpretation as to their social acceptability; it was just about everyone's judgment. Yes, we would get past the front door at The Creek or Seawanhaka, and we would be shown to a table and even waited on. Once.

So, if in fact the Sutters and the Bellarosas were going to get together for dinner or drinks in public, I would be well advised to pick a restaurant out of the area (but even that was fraught with danger, as I myself discovered about a year ago when I was having dinner on the South Shore with a client, female, young, beautiful, who liked to touch when making a point, and in walked the damned DePauws. But that's another story).

Anyway, I suppose the four of us could go to Manhattan if we had to have dinner. The city is supposed to be anonymous, but it seems I'm always running into someone I know in Midtown.

Also, there seems to be some sort of odd connection between Mafia dons dining out and Mafia dons being murdered, splattering blood all over innocent people and that sort of thing. This may seem a bit paranoid, but it's happened often enough to be a real possibility, and for me to plan for; thus, if I were dining out with the don, I would seriously consider wearing an old suit.

I believe Bellarosa when he tells me that the Mafia still maintains high, professional standards of murder, and in fact innocent people usually suffer no more than a stomach upset at these traditional dinner-hour murders. And of course, the dinner or what's left of it is always on the house for spectators as well as participants in the rubout. The murder, naturally, has to be committed in in the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York's best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives. the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York's best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.

So, to sup or not to sup? Considering what Frank himself said about the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo, trying to provoke a gang war, I would opt for Chinese take-out. But what if my crazy wife asks them out to dinner? All things considered, I don't know if it would be worse to dine with the Bellarosas at The Creek and face social ostracism, or to go to Manhattan for a jittery dinner at a nice little place that Frank insists on showing us, where the food is great, the owner is a paesano paesano, and everyone sits at banquettes with their backs to the wall.

Well, of course there are other options, and I don't mean to suggest that two headstrong people such as Frank and Susan could get me to do something I don't want to do. If the situation arises, I will insist on having Frank and Anna to our house for a quick drink and coffee to go.

A few days before the Memorial Day weekend, Dominic and his crew put the finishing touches on the stable. All in all, it was a masterful job of demolition and reconstruction. It was actually a bit eerie to see a familiar landmark disappear, then reappear in the same shape and form, in a new location. Dominic and his husky elves could indeed move the Sistine Chapel down the block if they had the Pope's okay. And if they had the don's okay, they could move my house onto Alhambra's patio. I was almost afraid to go on vacation.

And so that glorious day arrived when Zanzibar and Yankee came home. I suggested tricolored bunting and garlands of flowers, but Susan ignored my suggestions and kept the ceremony simple and dignified, with only Dominic in attendance. I figured he was there to collect his money, but when I asked for the bill, he just jerked his thumb toward Alhambra. I gave him a bonus of five hundred dollars in cash for his men, and he seemed very happy for his men and looked as if he couldn't wait to distribute it.

Anyway, I sent a note over to Frank via Susan, but another week passed and still no bill. Now I owed the guy drinks and a chunk of cash, not to mention the fact that I was eating well.

Susan says that Italian food makes her passionate, and I, too, had noticed that our sex life, always good, had gotten better. Maybe Mrs. B. had found the right combination of Italian herbs and spices. One evening, over one of these Alhambra take-out dinners, I said to Susan, "My God, your tits are growing. Get the recipe for this ravioli."

"Don't be a wiseass, John.'' She added, "You've put on a needed inch yourself, and I don't mean your waist."

Touche. But anyway, I think our increased sexual appetites were more psychological than culinary in origin, and perhaps a result of the perfect spring weather, which always makes my sap run hot, to use a tree metaphor. But who knows? When you're middle aged, whatever works is right. Suffice it to say, Susan and I were getting it on in the bedroom and kitchen. We weren't doing as well in the other rooms, however, as Susan, always somewhat distant, seemed now distracted, as if she had something on her mind. So I asked her one day, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Things."

"Things? Like the recent outbreak of violence in Kurdistan?"

"Things around here. Just things."

"Well, the children will be home in June, and in July I'll be on half schedule, and in August we'll go to East Hampton."

She shrugged.

Remembering the immortal words of Frank Bellarosa on the subject of accommodating women, I said, "Why don't you go back to Brooklyn?"

Anyway, I thought that with the stable moved and the horsies home at last, Susan's visits to Alhambra would taper off, but I had the impression she was still there quite a bit. I mean, I'm not around that much during the day, but whenever I called home, she was not there, and my messages on the answering machine went unanswered.

Also, George, the ever-faithful servant, would sometimes intercept me on my way to my house and say things like, "Mrs. Sutter hasn't been in all day or I would have asked her ...'' followed by an inane question. George is not subtle, though he thinks he is. Obviously, he disapproved of any relationship with the Bellarosas. George is more royal than the king, holier than the bishop, and a bigger snob than any Astor or Vanderbilt I've ever met. A lot of the old servants are like that, trying to make their younger masters and mistresses act more like their fathers and mothers, who were, of course, paragons of virtue, gentlemen and ladies of refined manners, and so forth. Servants have very selective memories.

The point is, George was not happy with us, and I knew that eventually, when he'd had a couple of stiff ones, he would say something to his cronies on the other estates, and the gossip would work its way up the social ladder. Well, if anything got back to me, I'd let George know how he'd kept his job and house all these years. No, I wouldn't. I liked George. And he liked Susan and me. But he was was a gossip. a gossip.

As for Ethel, I couldn't get a fix on her opinion of the Bellarosas or our relationship with them. She seemed noncommittal, almost nonjudgmental for a change. I suspect that this was because she couldn't fit the Bellarosas into her theory of class struggle. Socialist doctrine, I think, is somewhat vague on the subject of criminals, and Ethel gets most of her opinions from nineteenth-century radicals who believed that the oppressive capitalist system created crime and criminals. So, perhaps Ethel was wrestling with the idea that Frank Bellarosa was a victim of free enterprise rather than one of its beneficiaries. If Ethel and I agree on anything, it is probably Mark Twain's observation that "there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress."

Anyway, there was one day when I was in the city and I had to reach Susan to ask her if she could come into Manhattan to join me for dinner with two out-of-town clients, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, who had dropped in unexpectedly, and who are old friends of her parents. I called home and left two messages on Susan's machine, then as my rendezvous time with the Petersons approached, I called the gatehouse and spoke to Ethel. She informed me that Mrs. Sutter had taken Zanzibar to Alhambra in the morning and had not returned, to the best of her knowledge. So, what would you do if your gatekeeper's wife informed you that your spouse had taken the stallion to the neighboring estate? One should, of course, send a servant to fetch one's spouse, and this is what Ethel offered to do; that is, to send George next door. Or, she suggested, I might call Alhambra to see if Mrs. Sutter was actually there. I said it wasn't important, though of course it must be if I were calling the gatehouse. I hung up with Ethel, called Susan's phone again, and left a final, rather curt message regarding my dinner date and the name of the restaurant.

The fact was, I still didn't have the Bellarosas' phone number, and Susan said she didn't either. I had noticed, when I was at Alhambra, and Susan confirmed, that none of the telephones there have the phone numbers written on the instruments. This was good security, of course, and I'd seen that in other great houses, as a precaution against the occasional servant, repairman, or the like jotting down the phone numbers of the rich and famous.

Late that evening, upon returning home after my dinner with the Petersons (Susan had not shown up at the restaurant), I said to Susan, "I was trying to get in touch with you today."

"Yes, I got the messages on my machine and from Ethel."

I never never ask "Where were you?'' because if I did, then she would start asking "Where were ask "Where were you?'' because if I did, then she would start asking "Where were you you?''-which leads to "Who were you with and what were you doing?'' What could be more lower-middle-class than asking your spouse to account for his or her day or evening? That's probably how Sally Ann got her first black eye. But I did say, "I would like to be able to reach you if you are at Alhambra. Would you prefer that I send George over, or should you ask the Bellarosas for their telephone number?"

She shrugged. "I don't have any reason to call them. I suppose you could just send George."

I think Susan was missing my point. I responded, "George is not always available. Perhaps you can get the Bellarosas' phone number, Susan. I'm sure you will have some some reason to call them someday." reason to call them someday."

"I don't think so. I just come and go as I please. If I have to leave a message, I leave it with Anthony, Vinnie, or Lee."

"Who, may I ask, are Anthony, Vinnie, and Lee?"

"You've met Anthony-the gatekeeper. Vinnie is the other gatekeeper. They both live in the gatehouse. Lee is Anthony's friend. She lives in the gatehouse also. It has three bedrooms."

"Lee is a woman. I see. And what does poor Vinnie do for a friend?"

"Vinnie has another friend, Delia, who comes by."

The idea of Grace Lane's location being known by people whose origins were in Brooklyn was somewhat disturbing. I was at the point where I could almost tolerate Mafia dons and their peers in black limousines, but hit men, gun molls, and other riffraff were another matter. I said, "I don't like the idea of a bordello down the street."

"Oh, John. Really. What do you expect Anthony and Vinnie to do? Guard duty gets lonely. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off, seven days a week. They split it up. Lee keeps house."

"That's interesting.'' What was even more interesting, I thought, was that Lady Stanhope seemed to find these Damon Runyon characters simpatico. simpatico. But I, narrow-minded, upper-middle-class John Sutter, was not so tolerant. I suggested, "Perhaps we should introduce Anthony, Vinnie, Lee, and Delia to the Allards, and they can exchange professional tips on gatekeeping." But I, narrow-minded, upper-middle-class John Sutter, was not so tolerant. I suggested, "Perhaps we should introduce Anthony, Vinnie, Lee, and Delia to the Allards, and they can exchange professional tips on gatekeeping."

Getting no response, I went back to my main point and said, "But surely, Susan, on a dark and stormy night, it might be easier to call Alhambra than to go to the gatehouse and interrupt something."

"Look, John, if you want the phone number, you ask for it. How were the Petersons?"

"They were very sorry they missed you.'' The question of the telephone number was now in my court, where it would stay. Do you see what I mean about Susan's unreasonableness? Stubbornness Stubbornness might be a better word. It's the red hair. Really it is. might be a better word. It's the red hair. Really it is.

Anyway, regarding the Bellarosas' phone number, I didn't really want it, except for those rare occasions when I needed to reach Susan, who seemed to have become part of the royal court at Alhambra. But the fact that Bellarosa hadn't called, written, sent word, or divulged his phone number to me confirmed in my mind that we had no lawyer/client relationship, either implied or inferred. And the next time he called me, I resolved that I would tell him that in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, Fate, which had always been kind to me in the past, was pissed off at me for some reason and intervened again to push me into Bellarosa's deadly embrace.

I was busy at work, especially in my Manhattan office. My practice has as much to do with money as it does with law. Or to be more precise, my clients want to know how to legally keep their money out of the hands of the government. This spirited contest between the taxpayer and the Internal Revenue Service has been going on since the very moment Congress passed the income tax amendment in 1913. In recent years, because of people like me, the taxpayer has actually won a few rounds.

The result of this prolonged conflict has been the creation of a large and thriving tax industry, of which I and my firm are important players. My clients are mostly people or heirs to people who were hit hard in 1929, and those who recovered faced income tax rates that reached ninety percent by the 1950s. Many of these people, sophisticated in other ways, were unprepared for the onslaught of income redistribution from Washington. Some, in an idiotic display of guilt and altruism, even saw it as just and fair, like Susan's grandfather, who was prepared to give half his money to the American people. But when it got to be more than half, some of these socially progressive millionaires began to feel the pinch. It also became obvious that the few dollars of tax money that did get down to the people were getting to the wrong people for the wrong reasons.

And so, in a less sophisticated age, even those of my firm's clients who knew how to make money in the worst of times didn't know how to keep it from the government in the best of times. But they've seen the light, and they don't intend for this to happen again, for this is the age of greed, and of looking out for Number One. And through a process of social Darwinism, we have all evolved into specialized species who can smell the danger of a new tax law hatched on Capitol Hill all the way to Wall Street.

These people, my clients, hire me to be certain that they are not going to go to jail if they or their financial planners come up with a clever way to beat a tax. It's all legal, of course, and I wouldn't be involved with it if it weren't. The motto around here is this: To evade taxes is illegal; to avoid taxes is legal. To evade taxes is illegal; to avoid taxes is legal. And, I might add, a civil right and moral obligation. And, I might add, a civil right and moral obligation.

So, for instance, when the new tax law swept away the old Clifford Trust for children, some bright guy like me (I wish it had been me) came up with something called a pseudo-Clifford Trust, which accomplished the same objective of transferring tax-free money to the little heirs and is so clever and complicated that the Internal Revenue Service is still trying to figure out a way to plug up the loophole. It's a game-maybe even a war. I play it well, and I also play it clean and straight. I can afford to; I'm smarter than the other side, and if anyone in the IRS were as bright as I am, they'd be working for me.

Anyway, though I play it straight, I sometimes wind up in tax court with a client to settle a difference of opinion. But no client of mine has ever faced criminal charges for tax fraud unless he's lied to me about something or held something back. I try to keep my clients as honest as I am. When you cheat at poker, life, or taxes, you've taken the honor and fun out of winning, and ultimately you've cheated yourself out of the finest pleasure in life: beating the other guy fair and square. That's what I was taught in school.

Granted, the other side doesn't always play fair, but in this country you always have the option of yelling "foul,'' and going to court. Maybe if I lived in another country with no honest and independent judiciary, I wouldn't fight fair. I am, after all, talking about survival, not suicide. But here, in America, the system still works, and I believe in it. At least I did up until eleven A A.M. that morning. By noon, I had entered another stage of my life as an endangered species, trying to quickly evolve a few more specialized survival skills and stay out of jail myself. But more about that in a moment.

So there I was, sitting in my Wall Street office on that pleasant May morning, buried in work. My summer schedule generally consists of four-day weekends at my summer house in East Hampton during July, then I spend the whole month of August there. On the days in July that I do work in Manhattan or Locust Valley, I knock off early, and Susan and I sail out of the yacht club and stay out until dark, or when the mood strikes us, we stay on the water until dawn, which is beautiful.