The Gold Coast (19 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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“I see.’’ Obviously my first advice as
consigliere
wasn’t cutting it. I said, “But Ferragamo is banking on that. He knows you won’t go to the Colombians.”
“This is true. Only another wop could have understood that.”
“So? If you won’t meet with the Colombians yourself, send somebody.’’
But not me.
“Same thing. Forget it.”
We walked across the palm court. I found this interesting as an intellectual challenge and on that basis would have liked to come up with a solution. But I also realized there was more to my interest in his problems than a mental exercise. I said, “Tell the Colombians to come to you. Demand a meeting on your terms.”
He turned to me and smiled. “Yeah? Maybe they’ll come. But any way you cut that, it’s me going to them to ask them for a break. Fuck them. If they think they’re big enough to take me on, let them try. Maybe they need a lesson in respect.”
Mamma mia
, this guy was tough. I recalled what he had said in my office. Life is war. And what he had said in the morning room. Italian men don’t compromise. That about covered it. But I had a last solution. “Find out who killed Carranza and deliver the guy to the State Attorney General, Lowenstein.”
“I don’t do cop work.”
“Then deliver him to the Colombians.’’ I can’t believe I said that.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already know who killed Carranza. The cops killed him. The fucking DEA—the Drug Enforcement Agency. They put five slugs in his head—mob style, like they say.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know the guys who did it. And it was no vigilante thing, if you’re thinking they’re good guys. It was no vendetta for a DEA guy who got hit in Colombia. They iced Carranza because he screwed them on a deal.”
God, this
was
depressing. What a world this man lived in. Right here, in America. Of course I’d read about it. But it’s not the same as hearing it live. I asked, “Why don’t the Colombians know this?”
“Because they’re stupid. They got no contacts, they got no sources. They’re fucking outlaws. I got all kinds of sources—press sources, police sources, political sources, court sources.’’ Bellarosa stopped walking and put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, the thing that the government calls the Mafia—the Sicilians, the Neapolitans—we’ve been in America for a hundred years. Christ, we’re part of the establishment. That’s why we’re fat ducks now for the assholes in the Justice Department. But let me tell you something. Compared to these new people, we’re nice guys. We play the fucking game. We don’t hit cops, we don’t hit judges, we don’t go into people’s houses and massacre families. We make contributions to the right people, we give to the Church, we provide services. If you run this kind of thing right, it don’t have to be messy. You take your South Americans and your
melanzane
from the islands, they go right for the guns. Half of these assholes are on the junk they sell. But does Ferragamo go after these dangerous people, these crazies? No. The shithead wastes everybody’s time and money going after his
paesanos
, because he can get to them, because he understands them. And he’s got ambitions, this man. He wants to make a name.
Capisce?
And he knows we won’t take him out. Is Ferragamo good for the public, the taxpayers? No. Well, fuck him. Maybe some
melanzane
will slice his throat for his watch someday. Meanwhile, we do business like nothing’s wrong. Let him or the Colombians make the first move. Right?”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Good. Let’s go talk to the women.’’ He took my arm and led me between two columns, then through an archway into the living room.
The room was about eighty feet long and half as wide, with a beamed cathedral ceiling. The walls were white stucco and the windows were arched. Unfortunately, this was not the living room. It was just too big, even for a great house. This must once have been the ballroom. At the far end was a grouping of chairs where Susan and Anna sat, looking very tiny and alone.
Bellarosa and I walked the eighty feet to the furniture, and I remembered to put my glasses back on. I sat before Bellarosa could say “Sit.’’ Bellarosa remained standing.
Susan addressed Bellarosa. “The house is beautiful.”
Bellarosa smiled. “Yeah.”
Susan asked both of us, “What were you two talking about all that time?”
I replied, “Machiavelli.”
She smiled at Bellarosa. “John’s not much of a talker. But he pays attention.”
“Your husband’s a smart man.”
Susan beamed proudly. Well, no, actually, she crossed her legs and sat back.
Anna addressed her lord and master. “Susan knew the people who lived here before. The Barretts. Susan used to sleep in the guest room.”
Bellarosa smiled at Susan. “It’s yours if you have a fight with your husband.”
Susan smiled in return. Why wasn’t I smiling?
Anna said to Frank, “Susan knows some of the history here, Frank. The real estate lady wasn’t lying about the Vanderbilts.”
“She lied about the plumbing,’’ Bellarosa said.
Anna had more news. “This isn’t the living room, Frank.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s a ballroom.”
“What?”
“And the room where we got the TV is the drawing room.’’ She looked at Susan. “Tell him what that is.”
Susan explained, “That’s the room to which guests withdraw after dinner. But it’s fine as a TV room.”
And so Susan gave the Bellarosas a crash course in great-house floor plans. Interestingly, however, she did it with some humor and self-effacement as if it were all very silly, thus not making the Bellarosas feel that they were vulgar half-wits who had no business living in a house they couldn’t understand. This was a new Susan.
Meanwhile, I tried to figure out how I started the evening in an Irish pub and ended it as part of the Bellarosa family. Obviously none of this was happening. I’d wake up at Locust Valley station, get off the train, and try it again.
Bellarosa said to Susan, “Come on. I’ll show you my pride and joy. The conservatory.”
This didn’t seem to include me, so I remained seated as Susan stood. Lady Stanhope and Squire Bellarosa walked off. I turned to Anna, and we smiled at each other.
She shook her finger at me. “I
know
you from someplace.”
“Have you ever been to Plato’s Retreat?”
“No. . . .”
“I have a familiar face. Or maybe you saw my picture in the post office or the newspapers.”
“You in the papers?”
“The local paper sometimes.’’ I added, “I recognized your husband, for instance, the first time I saw him in person. I felt I knew him from seeing him so many times on TV and in the papers.”
She looked embarrassed, and I felt just a bit sorry I’d said that. Henceforth, I would assume that Anna Bellarosa was a civilian and I would treat her as such unless I found out otherwise.
She said, “Maybe this move was good for us. Maybe Frank will meet nice people here, like you and Susan.’’ She lowered her voice. “I don’t like some of the people Frank has to do business with.”
Little did she know I might be one of them. I was not altogether surprised that Frank the Bishop Bellarosa’s wife thought he was a good man who only needed a few good people to get him on the path to salvation. She did not have a clue about her husband’s commitment to villainy and perhaps outright evil.
We made small talk for a few minutes, and as we spoke, I removed my glasses and looked her right in the eyes. She hesitated a second or two, then I think it was starting to come to her. I expected her to jump up and run the eighty feet out of the room. But she must have rejected as absurd whatever had popped into her tiny brain, and she went back to her chatting.
Normally, if left alone with a woman in this sort of situation, I’d do a little mild flirting, just to be polite, or to show I was still alive down where my oxford shirt ended. Sometimes, too, I flirt because I am honestly filled with lust. But I’d sworn off flirting, at least until the start of next Lent. And even if I hadn’t sworn off, I wasn’t going to screw around with Caesar’s wife. Poor Anna, she probably hadn’t been propositioned since Frank got his first gun. Still, I did stare at her mountainous bumpers, and she smiled openly at me.
To be honest, after Frank, Anna was a bit of a snooze. She was sweet, even a little funny, but I’d had enough Brooklyn English for one night. I wanted to go.
Anna leaned toward me and lowered her voice again. “John?”
“Anna?”
“I want to ask you something.”
The top part of the hostess pajamas, in case I hadn’t mentioned it, was kind of loose and open. So when she leaned toward me, like it or not, I could see where those tremendous hooters lived.
Mamma mia
, those tits weighed more than Susan.
“John . . . this is a silly question, but . . .”
“Yes?’’ I tried to maintain eye contact.
Her hand went to the cross dangling free over her cleavage, and she fingered it. “I asked Susan, and she said no . . . but are there any stories about ghosts?”
“Ghosts?”
“Ghosts. You know? In this house. Like you hear with the big old houses. Like on TV . ’’ She looked at me as she continued to play with the cross.
“Oh. . . .’’ I thought a moment, then remembered a ghost story. I said, “Well, there is a story that I’ve heard . . . but it’s really not worth repeating.”
Her free hand reached out and touched mine. “Tell me.”
“Well . . . all right. Some years ago, it seems there was a governess here who looked after the two Barrett children, Katie and . . . Miles. The governess, an attractive young woman, came to suspect that Katie was . . . well, possessed by the ghost of the former governess, a woman named Miss Jessel—”
“Oh!’’ She squeezed my hand. “No!”
“Yes. And to make matters worse, Miles was possessed by the ghost of the former estate manager, an evil man named Peter.”
Anna’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, John! Do you think . . . I mean, that the man I saw . . . could that have been . . . ?”
I never thought of that. Why not? Better him than me. I said, “Well, Peter, I understand, was about my age, my build—”
“Oh, my God.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go on.”
“No. Go on. I have to know.”
“All right. Well, from what I’ve been told, the governess made a startling deduction. She was convinced that the dead estate manager, Peter, and the dead governess, Miss Jessel, were continuing their mortal sexual affair through the possessed bodies of the young sister and brother.”
“No!’’ She released my hand and made a quick sign of the cross, then fell back in her chair. “In this house? Where? Which room?”
“Well . . . the guest room.’’ I didn’t want a fainter on my hands, so I said, “I think that’s enough. And I don’t believe any of it—”
“No, John. Tell me the rest. Tell me!”
So, ever the good guest, I continued, “There were some people who thought that the new governess was actually having an affair with the boy, Miles, who was of course only the innocent vehicle for the evil Peter. Others said the governess was also having a lesbian affair with Katie, who of course was Miss Jessel—”
“You mean that the governess was . . . and the two children were . . . ? Susan’s friend, Katie Barrett, and her brother . . . and the governess . . . ?”
“Who knows?’’ Indeed, having read
The Turn of the Screw
twice, I still couldn’t figure out who was doing it with whom. But somewhere in all that constipated Victorian gibberish was a fine sex-horror story. I said to Anna, “I don’t know how much, if any, of what I heard is true, but I know that the Barretts left suddenly in 1966 and never returned. The house has not been lived in until’’—organ crescendo, please—“until now. But don’t tell Susan I told you this, as it still upsets her.”
She nodded her head as she tried to catch her breath. My, she had actually grown pale. “Yes . . . I won’t . . . John, are they still here?”
“The Barretts?”
“No, the
ghosts
.”
“Oh . . . I don’t know.’’ I was feeling a wee bit like a bad boy, so I added, “I doubt it. They were only interested in sex.”
“My God. . . .’’ She made the sign of the cross again and informed me, “We had a priest here to bless the house before we moved in.”
“There you go. Nothing to worry about. Can I get you some sherry? Grappa?”
“No. I’m okay.’’ She continued to hold on to her cross, blocking my view of Joy Valley.
I glanced at my watch. About twenty minutes had passed since Susan and Frank had taken a walk, and I was beginning to get a little annoyed.
I sat back and crossed my legs. Anna and I exchanged a few words, but the woman was clearly upset about something. Finally, a bit impatient with her silliness, I said sternly, “A Christian does not believe in ghosts.”

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