He was chewing on olive pits now and spoke as he chewed. "I'll tell you one rule they play by. They come into Little Italy to make a hit, there won't be a fucking black or Spanish left in New York. They understand that rule. Don't worry about them around here."

I've always liked New York because of its ethnic diversity, this great American melting pot. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses ... I've forgotten the rest of it. Maybe we've all forgotten it. ... I've forgotten the rest of it. Maybe we've all forgotten it.

Bellarosa leaned toward me and said, "As long as this stuff bothers you, you ever think about getting a gun permit?"

"It's not on my 'must do' list, no."

"Well, if you're going to be around, you know, you should think about it."

"Why?"

He quoted, "'Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.' Who said that?"

"Mother Teresa?"

He laughed. "Come on. Machiavelli. Right?

"Right. Do I get combat pay?"

"Sure. Hey, I owe you fifty large. Right?"

"No. I don't want it."

"That don't matter. You got it."

A waiter set down a platter of antipasto. There seemed to be no sequence to this meal, at least none that I could determine.

Bellarosa pointed to the items on the plate. "That's prosciutto-you know that stuff, right? This is stracchino stracchino, and this is taleggio. taleggio. This cheese here has worms in it, so I won't make you eat it." This cheese here has worms in it, so I won't make you eat it."

"Excuse me?"

"Worms. Little worms. You know? They give the cheese a flavor. You don't eat the worms. You crumble the cheese like this and get the worms out. See? See that one?"

I stood. "Where is the men's room?"

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Back there."

I walked to the men's room, a horrible little place, and washed my face and hands. Worms? Worms?

The door opened and Lenny came in. He stood at the sink beside me and combed his greasy hair. He asked me, "You enjoyin' your lunch, Counselor?"

"Shouldn't you be out there keeping an eye on the door?"

"Vinnie got two eyes.'' He washed his hands. "Fucking city. Everything's got dirt on it.'' He dried his hands on a towel roll that had dirt on it. "You're the don's lawyer, so you're not wired. Correct?"

"Wired? Are you out of your mind?"

"No. Sometimes people got wires. Sometimes they come in the shitter to drop a wire, sometimes to pick up a wire. If I see people go to the shitter when they're talking to the don, I think wire, I think gun."

"I think you've been watching too much TV."

He chuckled. "So? You mind?'' He held out his clean hands toward me.

I stood there a moment, then nodded. The son of a bitch gave me a thorough frisking, then said, "Okay. Just checking. Everybody got a job."

I put a quarter on the sink. "That's for you, Lenny. Good job.'' I left. Boy, I was really getting the hang of it now. I returned to the table and saw that the worm cheese had been removed from the antipasto.

Frank said, "Yeah. I got rid of that for you. You find the back'ouse okay?"

"The what?"

He laughed. "The back house. Back'ouse, they say in Little Italy. From when it was out back. You know?"

"Yes, I found it.'' I saw Lenny return to his table, glaring at me as he sat. I asked Bellarosa, "Did you send him in to frisk me?"

"Nah. He just does it. Look, I know Mancuso tried to get to you, and I trust you more than I trust a lot of my own people. But when I know know I'm talking to a guy who's clean, I feel better." I'm talking to a guy who's clean, I feel better."

"Mr. Bellarosa, a lawyer cannot, may not, will not, act as an agent for the government against his own client."

"Yeah. But maybe you're writing a book.'' He laughed. "Fuck it. Let's eat. Here. This is called manteche. manteche. No worms.'' He put a piece of the cheese on a biscuit he called No worms.'' He put a piece of the cheese on a biscuit he called frisalle frisalle and held it near my mouth. "Come on. Try that." and held it near my mouth. "Come on. Try that."

I tried it. It wasn't bad. I sipped some Chianti and popped a black olive in my mouth. These people dined out differently from what I was used to. For instance, none of the previous plates had been cleared, and Bellarosa returned to his fried squid.

I said to him, "Mancuso told me you once beat one of your men with a pipe and broke every bone in his body."

He looked up from his squid. "Yeah? Why'd he tell you that? What's he trying to do? He trying to make me sound like a bad guy?"

"Well, that certainly didn't show you in the best light."

"Mancuso should learn how to keep his fucking mouth shut."

"The issue is not Mancuso, Frank. The issue is you beating a man with a pipe."

"That's not an issue.'' He pulled apart some bread and dipped it in the red sauce as he spoke. "When you're young, you sometimes do things you don't want to do, but got to do. I wasn't the boss when that thing happened. The boss was a guy who you'd know. He's dead now. But when he said to me, 'Frank, you got to do this or you got to do that,' I did it. Capisce? Capisce?"

I didn't reply.

"Just like in the army or in the church. You follow orders. I give the orders now, and I don't like the rough stuff. Times are changing. Not everybody wants to get into this business anymore. You got to treat your people better."

"At least offer them Blue Cross and Blue Shield."

He thought that was funny. "Yeah. If you break their legs, they're covered. Yeah. Blue Cross."

There was no reason to pursue the bone-smashing incident; it was only important that he knew that I knew about his peculiar managerial style. In truth, there were times when I would have liked to beat my partners with a lead pipe, but that would only give them an excuse to do the same to me. And that made me think of Signor Niccol Machiavelli. I said to Frank, "An enemy must either be caressed or annihilated."

He looked up from his food. "Yeah. That's the problem with pissing somebody off, Counselor. I'm happy you understand that. In my business, you treat people with respect or you put them away. Now that thing with the pipe, for instance, that was not a good idea. That was one pissed-off paesano paesano, so when he was feeling better again, I knew I had to settle that. You know? He had to be caressed or annihilated. You don't leave people around like that with vendettas against you."

"So you bought him dinner and gave him a raise."

"Yeah.'' He thought a moment, then added, "I'll tell you the main thing that's wrong with what the priests teach you-the main thing wrong with religion. It's the bullshit about turning the other cheek. You do that and everybody's gonna take a pop at your face. But sometimes you got to take a hit. Like with Ferragamo. There's not a fucking thing I can do to him. All I can do is make sure there's not a fucking thing he can do to me. Understand? And if you can't get rid of a guy, you don't piss him off, even if he's on your case."

"But you piss Ferragamo off just by being alive."

He smiled. "Yeah. That's his his problem. But problem. But you you piss him off by smart-assing him." piss him off by smart-assing him."

"So what? There's not a thing he can do to me."

"Maybe yes, maybe no. So maybe he comes after your friends. Maybe you want to give him a call and discuss the case. He would like you to do that. He would like you to show a little respect."

"The man is an asshole, Frank, and everybody in New York knows it."

"That's why he needs all the respect he can get."

We both laughed at that one. Bellarosa said, "Hey, maybe the son of a bitch will be the Governor someday, or even the President. Be nice to him. He'll make you the Attorney General."

In fact, by taking Mr. Frank Bellarosa as a client, I would never be considered for any public office. Not that I want to be a judge or to run for the State Assembly or anything like that, but in the back of every lawyer's mind is that possibility. I was once elected to the Lattingtown Village Board, but after this fiasco, I would be well-advised to stay out of public life for a decade or so.

Frank said, "So maybe you'll call him. I'll give you his private number."

I looked at him. "Frank, he's not going to drop any charges against you after today."

"Yeah, I know that. I'm not talking about that. I thought you understood."

"You mean, you want me to apologize to him?"

"You don't have to say, 'Mr. Ferragamo, I'm sorry I made you look like an asshole and a fool.' In fact, you don't mention that. You just talk to him about the case with respect. He'll forgive you, because he's an asshole. Capisce? Capisce?"

Here was a client who wanted me to call the prosecution-not to try to make a deal or plea bargain, but to apologize for beating his pants off in court. Mamma mia Mamma mia, I don't remember any of this from Harvard Law. I replied, "I'll call him. And I'll be respectful toward his office."

"There you go. Sometimes assholes hold important positions. You think every Caesar was a bright guy? Whaddaya gonna do? You got to deal with it.'' He poured more wine. "Ready for your pasta?"

We'd been there an hour already, and I had consumed a lot of food, mostly bread, cheese, and olives, which were the only edible things served so far. Also the Chianti was working its way through my duodenum. I said, "I'll pass on pasta."

"No. You have pasta. They have lingue de passero lingue de passero here-the sparrow's tongue." here-the sparrow's tongue."

"Can I get meatballs instead?"

"It's not real sparrow tongue. It's the name of the pasta. You think we eat sparrow's tongue?"

"You eat worms, Frank, and sheep's brains."

"You don't eat the worms. You'll have sparrow's tongue. It comes from a little town called Faro San Martino in Abruzzo-the province of Brutus. That's where my wife's family is from. They're very thickheaded there. But they have magnificent pasta.'' He put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and kissed. "Magnifico. And we're gonna have it with the puttanesca puttanesca sauce. The whore's sauce." sauce. The whore's sauce."

"Say again?"

"Whore. Whore. I don't know why they call it that. Maybe because it's got anchovies in it.'' He laughed. "You understand?"

"I believe I do."

He raised a finger and a waiter appeared. Bellarosa made a sweeping motion with his hand, and the waiter snapped his fingers, and two busboys hurried over and cleared away round one.

I settled back in my chair and had some water. I noticed that the Wall Street types had left, and so had some of the local tradesmen. But the old men stayed on, sipping wine or coffee. Also still present were the men who looked like Frank. Obviously, there were two kinds of lunches served here: American Italian and Italian Italian.

Frank stood and excused himself but did not head for the back'ouse. Instead, he walked to a table where four men in dark suits sat. They greeted him cordially but with obvious reserve. I watched as a waiter ran over with a wineglass and one of the men poured Bellarosa some Chianti. They all touched glasses and I heard them mumble, "Salute.'' They drank, then they all hunched forward over the table and said grace. Well, maybe not.

Good Lord, I thought, these people really exist. I mean, right there, not twenty feet away, were five mafiosi drinking wine in a restaurant in Little Italy. I was sorry I hadn't brought my video camera. Look, kids, here's Daddy having lunch with a Mafia don. Now the don is walking over to talk to his mobster friends. See? Okay, the camera's swinging around to those two men near the door. See them? They're bodyguards. See the door? Close-up of the door. Okay, back to the table with the Mafia men.

I watched them, sans video camera. They all talked with their hands. One of them made a motion as if he were pushing something down into the table, another one touched his forefinger to his right eye, Bellarosa tapped the tips of his fingers on the table, and another guy flicked his thumb under his chin. One thing they didn't do with their hands, however, was to point at or touch one another.

I noticed, too, that their expressions were for the most part stoic, sort of that Mafia poker face that Frank put on when he walked in here. But now and then their eyes or their mouths would convey something without revealing anything.

I had no idea what was being discussed, of course, but I assumed that Bellarosa was telling them about his morning. Maybe they knew about the arrest by now, if it was on the radio or if they had another source of information. In any event, they would be interested in the outcome of his court appearance. The fact that he was in Giulio's was a point in his favor regarding any rumors floating around town that he was making deals with Alphonse Ferragamo.

The other order of business would be the Juan Carranza problem. By now, I could actually imagine a conversation among these people. Frank was saying something like, "We gotta stick together on this Carranza thing. Okay? We don't want a bunch of spics making us do things we don't wanna do. Right? And we don't want the fucking Feds to start something between us. You know? I don't wanna see no Italian blood spilled over a bunch of spics. Agreed? We don't want to hurt business, so if we gotta go to the mattresses with these spics, we hit them hard and fast. Understand? We don't make no separate deals with spics, chinks, melanzane melanzane, Feds, DAs, or nobody. Capisce? Capisce?"

How's that? The scary thing is that four months ago, if I'd heard that conversation, I wouldn't have understood half of it. Now I could make it up. Madonn Madonn'. What was happening to me? I didn't know, but it was interesting.

I regarded Lenny and Vinnie at their nice table for two in the corner. They hadn't had any alcohol as far as I could see, but they were puffing up a smoke screen and drinking cup after cup of coffee. The Italians seem to have the capacity to sit for hours at a table, talking and consuming things. Lenny and Vinnie seemed content doing nothing except sitting and watching the door. But I guess watching the door was about as important a job as there was in Giulio's at the moment. Both of them, I noticed, were also watching the remaining clientele, especially the four men with Frank. But the lingerers in the restaurant all seemed to be known by the waiters and maitre d', and I thought it was unlikely that one of them would suddenly stand up and start blasting away. No, it was the door that had to be watched. So, to help Vinnie and Lenny, I watched the door, too.

After about fifteen minutes, Frank returned to our table. "I'm sorry, Counselor. I had some business there."

"No problem."

The pasta came and Frank dug right in. "Whaddaya think? Smell like a whore's pussy? Yes? No?"

"No comment."

I picked at the pasta, which I guess did resemble little sparrow tongues. Actually, it was quite good, including the fishy sauce, but I was stuffed.

Bellarosa tore off a piece of bread and actually stuck it in my dish. "Here, dunk. Don't be shy."

I don't even like it when Susan takes food off my plate. But I took the bread from him and ate it.

I glanced at my watch. "Do you want to call your wife?"

"Yeah. Later."

"Maybe we should let her know you're out on bail."

"She's okay."

"She was upset after you left."

"Yeah? I told her to stay upstairs. You see? They don't fucking listen anymore."

"Nevertheless, a call-"

"What made you think of my wife? The puttanesca puttanesca sauce?'' He laughed. "Is that what made you think of calling my wife?" sauce?'' He laughed. "Is that what made you think of calling my wife?"