The Gold Coast (38 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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“Yeah. I don’t think you buy this. Okay, it’s not like in Europe with all the crazy political parties and all the crazy talk, but we got it anyway. Class struggle.”
“So that’s why Novac is out to get me? He’s a commie?”
“Sort of. But he don’t even know he is.”
“I should have known when he told me he was a vegetarian.”
“Yeah. Also, you got another war going on which is just as old as the class war—you got a war between the jackasses in the government and the smart people outside the government. The jackasses in the government want the poor and stupid people to think they care about them.
Capisce?
So you know where that leaves guys like you and me? Protecting our balls with one hand and our wallets with the other. Right?”
The man was right, of course. But when I tell my clients the same thing, I say it differently. Maybe that’s why they don’t always get it.
Bellarosa went on. “And it’s not true that the IRS don’t care about you, that you’re just a number to them. That would be fucking terrific if it was true, but it ain’t. They care about you in a way that you don’t want them to care.”
I replied, “But some of what they do, Frank, is not malicious or philosophically motivated. It’s just random, stupid bureaucracy. I know. I deal with them every day. I don’t think the IRS or Novac is out to get me personally.”
“It don’t
start
that way. It starts when they go after your
kind
of people. And that ain’t random or stupid, pal. That’s
planned.
And if it’s planned, it’s
war.
Then, when a guy like Novac gets on your case, it always turns personal.’’ He asked, “Did you piss him off?”
I smiled. “A little.”
“Yeah. Mistake number one.”
“I know that.”
“Look, Counselor, Novac is a five-number guy, good for maybe thirty, forty a year. You do maybe ten times that. It’s like with me and Ferragamo. Same thing. Thing is, they got the badges, so you don’t insult them to their face.”
“The man annoyed me.”
“Yeah. They do that. Look, Novac didn’t go into the IRS to protect your money. He went in there with an attitude, and if you knew what that attitude was, you’d shit.”
“I know that.”
Bellarosa leaned across the table toward me. “Novac has power, see? Power to make a guy like you, and yeah, even me, squirm. And he gets his rocks off doing that, because he’s got no power no place else—not at the bank, not in his office, maybe not even at home with his wife and kids. What kind of power you got at home when you bring in thirty thousand a year?’’ Bellarosa looked me in the eye. “Put yourself in Novac’s shoes for a day.”
“God, no. He wears synthetic leather.”
“Yeah? See? So go live in his shit house or his shit apartment, worry about the price of clothes for once in your life, the price of groceries, and lay awake at night and think about college tuition for your kids, and if you’re gonna get a bad report from your boss, or if the government is going to spring for a raise this year. Then go pay a call on Mr. John Sutter in his fancy fucking office and tell me how you’re going to act with him.”
My Lord, I almost felt sorry for Stephen Novac. “I understand all that, but I want to know—”
“Yeah, you got to understand first who you’re dealing with, and understand this—they like to pick on very visible people. People like me and yeah, people like you. Guys whose tax problems are gonna make the news. You know why?”
“Yes, Frank. I do taxes for a living. The IRS likes to make the news so they can scare the hell out of a few million other taxpayers who they can’t call on in person. That makes people pay their taxes.”
“They don’t give a
shit
about collecting taxes for the government. You still don’t get it. They care about scaring the hell out of people. That’s power. And that’s jealousy, too. A guy like Novac don’t have the balls to get rich like you and me, but he’s got the brains to be pissed at not being rich. That’s a dangerous man.”
I nodded. Bellarosa really did sound like Machiavelli in modern translation.
“Take a guy like Ferragamo,’’ Bellarosa continued. “He pretends like it’s all justice, democracy, equality, and caring about the poor and the victims of crime and all that shit. Wrong. That ain’t what it’s about, pal. It’s about fucking
power.
It’s jealousy, it’s personal, and it’s all covered up with nice sounding
bullshit.
Hey, I could take you to streets in Brooklyn where there’s more crime in one block than there is in this whole fucking county. Do you see Ferragamo down there? Do you see Mancuso down there? You see Novac there asking those pimps and drug dealers if they filled out their tax return? And I’ll tell you this, Counselor, it don’t matter if you led your whole life like
I
did, or like
you
did. When they decide to stick it up your ass with a felony, we’re both looking at the same five or ten years, and maybe more. You get time off for good behavior
after
you’re inside, not before.
Capisce?
And I’ll tell you something else you don’t want to hear. When
you
look at a jury, they look back and size you up, and you try to look innocent and friendly. When
I
look at a jury, half of them think I fixed the other half, and all of them think they’re gonna get blown away if they vote guilty.
That
is power, pal. I got it; you don’t. Nobody fucks with me. And here’s another news flash for you: If you think the government ain’t after your ass because of what you do, because you’re a fancy tax guy beating them at their own game, then you still don’t get it. Think about it.”
I’d already thought about that one and patriotically dismissed it. I said, “You’ve got this all figured out.”
“I got most of it figured out. I’m still working on some of it.’’ He leaned back in his chair and finished the goldfish. “So now you know
why.
Now you got to talk to Mr. Melzer. He’ll tell you how.”
I let a few seconds pass, then realized I had to ask, “Who is Mr. Melzer?”
“He was on the other side once. A big shot with the IRS. Now he’s in private consulting. You know? And now he’s rich from selling the enemy’s secrets. He knows the jackasses personally. Understand? I met him too late for me. But maybe he can do the right thing for you.”
I thought a moment. There were, indeed, a few renegades out there selling guns to the Indians. But I would never recommend one of them to my clients. From what I knew, they operated in a sort of gray area, trading on personal relationships in the IRS, maybe even paying bribes and blackmailing former coworkers, for all I knew. Their clients never knew, which was part of the deal. No, John Sutter, Mr. Straight, would not recommend a renegade IRS man to his clients, even if it was legal. It wasn’t
ethical.
I must have looked undecided, skeptical, or perhaps disappointed, because Bellarosa said, “Mr. Melzer will guarantee you, right up front, that you won’t be indicted. No criminal charges, no jail.”
“How can he guarantee that?”
“That’s his business, my friend. You want to fight this your way, you go ahead. You want to fight it with Melzer, with an up-front guarantee that you’ll never see the inside of a federal pen, then let me know. But you got to act quick before the jackasses get too far along for Melzer to settle things his way.”
I looked at Bellarosa. He, in effect, was personally guaranteeing me that I wasn’t going to jail. I might still be out a third of a million dollars, but I wasn’t going to be writing checks to the IRS in the warden’s office. What did I feel? Relief? Gratitude? A closeness to my new pal? You bet I did. “Okay. Melzer.”
“Good. He’ll get ahold of you.’’ Bellarosa looked around the room again. “Nice place.”
“Yes.”
“They take Catholics, right? Italians?”
“Yes, they do.”
“My sons can come here if I’m a member?”
“Yes.”
“How’s the food?”
“Not as good as Anna’s.”
He laughed, then looked at me for a few long seconds. “So you help me join up. Okay?”
“Well . . . you need three seconding sponsors. Understand?”
“Yeah. I belong to clubs. You find them. I don’t know anybody here.”
I saw this coming. “I’ll tell you, Frank, even if I could do that, you won’t get past the membership committee.”
“Yeah? Why?”
Why seemed to be the question of the evening. “You know why.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay, because this is one of the most exclusive and prestigious clubs in America, and they don’t want a . . . how do you describe yourself? I mean for real, Frank?”
He didn’t reply, so I helped him. “A Mafia don? Head of an organized crime family? What are you going to put on the application? What did you put on your tax return last year? Gangster?”
Again he made no reply, so I said, “Anyway, this is one institution you can’t coerce with threats, money, or political connections. I’ve got more chance of becoming a Mafia don than you’ve got of becoming a member of this club.”
Bellarosa thought about that a moment, and I could see he wasn’t pleased with this information, so I gave him more good news. “You’re not even welcome here as a guest. And if I take you here again, I’ll be playing golf on the public course, and I’ll have to do my skeet shooting in the basement of the Italian Rifle Club.”
He finished his drink and sucked up some ice cubes, which he crushed with his teeth, sending a shiver down my spine. “Okay,’’ he said finally. “So you do me another favor sometime.”
I had no doubt about that. I replied, “If it’s legal and possible, I’ll do you a favor.”
“Good. I just thought of a favor. You represent me with this murder rap. As a favor.”
Checkmate. I took a deep breath and nodded.
“Good. I don’t pay for favors.”
“I don’t charge for them.”
Bellarosa smiled. “But I’ll cover your expenses.”
I shrugged. For a terrible moment, I thought Bellarosa was going to extend his hand to me across the table. I had this bizarre vision of a photo in the club newsletter, captioned:
Mafia don and prominent attorney make deal at Creek.
But he didn’t want to shake, thank the Lord, and I changed the subject, saying, “I owe you money for the stable.”
“Yeah. What did Dominic tell you?”
I told him Dominic’s estimate but added, “It must have gone over that.”
“These greaseballs work cheap for the first few years. Then they learn a little English, and they see what’s going on here, and they start screwing the customers like everybody else.’’ He added, “That’s the American dream.”
Not quite. I said, “Those guys didn’t even make minimum wage.”
He shrugged. “So what? They ain’t gonna learn if you feel sorry for them and give them more. People got to be responsible for their own fuck-ups. Right?”
“Yes, but I think you subsidized the job. I think you’re trying to get me in your debt.”
He didn’t reply to that but asked, “You satisfied with the job and the price?”
“Yes.”
“End of story.”
“Whom do I pay?”
“You pay me. Stop by for coffee one day. Cash, check, it don’t matter.”
“All right.”
Bellarosa leaned back, crossed his legs, and regarded me a moment. He said, “Now that you know you’re not going to jail, you look happier.”
I would have been even happier if I knew that Frank Bellarosa was going to jail. What a mess.
Bellarosa informed me, “Hey, that picture your wife is doing looks great. She won’t let me look over her shoulder, you know. She chases me away, but when she’s gone, I lift up the cloth and take a peek. She’s a helluva painter.”
“I’m glad you like the painting.”
“Yeah. I got to find a place of honor for it. Anna likes it, too. Now she can see what Susan is talking about. You know? The ruins. Anna and Susan are getting along pretty good.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Your wife is very thoughtful to send over her cooking.’’ I’d slipped back into my inane Wasp speech patterns now that the important business was done with, and I could see that Frank was miffed. He’d probably thought we were soul mates, talking about bribery, murder, and Beryl Carlisle’s damp pants, but I wanted to show him that even if we wallowed in the same slops for a while, I could still soar like an eagle. I think he appreciated this on one level. That’s what he was buying: an eagle. Pigs were cheaper.
I became aware that something had caused a drop in the noise level. I looked toward the door and saw Susan coming toward me, Anna Bellarosa in tow.
Anna was wearing another one of those loose, flowing pantsuits, emerald green this time, and her feet were encased in white sandals, studded with sparkly rhinestones. She had on enough gold to cause a fluctuation in the precious metals market.
Anna was stealing glances at her surroundings as she moved toward us, and she became aware that she was the center of attention. Her face broke into a silly, self-conscious smile, and I was actually embarrassed for her. Poor Anna. I wondered if she knew why people were looking at her; that everyone there thought she was dressed funny, that she had the biggest hooters in the whole club, and that everyone had made the correct deduction that she was the Mafia don’s wife.

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