The Gold Coast (41 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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If Melzer could double my income to about $600,000, then Melzer must be good for over a million himself. And what did he do for that million? He fixed tax problems that were in large part created by people like himself. And the bozo probably went to a second-rate state university and squeaked out a degree in accounting. I made myself another drink.
Communism was dead, and American capitalism had a bad cough. So who and what would inherit the earth? Not the meek, as the Reverend Mr. Hunnings preached. Not the parasites, such as Melzer, who could survive only while the organism was alive. Not Lester Remsen, who, though he specialized in mining and industrial stocks, wouldn’t know a lump of coal from a cow pie. And certainly not me or my children, who had evolved along very narrow lines to be masters of a world that no longer existed.
People like the Stanhopes might survive because their ancestors had stashed away enough acorns to last for a long time. People like Bellarosa might survive if they could make deals with the new wolves in the woods. Evolution, not revolution. That was what America was all about. But you had to evolve fast.
I took my gin and tonic and went out on the back terrace. Susan, who had taken to drinking Campari and soda this summer (probably because it was served at Alhambra), joined me outside. She asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. But I need to borrow twenty thousand from you.”
“I’ll have a check drawn to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I’ll have it back to you as soon as I unload some stocks. What is your interest rate?”
“The vig is one percent a week, compounded daily, and you got ninety days to pay up the principal or I break your legs.’’ She laughed.
I glanced at her. “Where did you learn that? Next door?”
“No, no. I’m reading a book about the Mafia.”
“Why?”
“Why? You read books on local trees, I read books on local wildlife.’’ She added, “Those wiseguys are not nice people.”
“No kidding.”
“But they make much better interest on their investments than my stupid trustees do.”
“So tell Bellarosa you want to capitalize his loan-sharking.”
She thought a moment, then said, “Somehow, I think Frank is different. He’s trying to go a hundred-percent legitimate.”
“He told you that?”
“Of course not. Anna did. But in a roundabout way. She doesn’t even admit he’s head of a Mafia family. I guess, like me, she never saw it in the papers.”
“Susan,’’ I replied, “Frank Bellarosa is the number-one criminal in New York, perhaps in America. He could not legitimize his business or his life even if he wanted to, and I assure you he does not want to.”
She shrugged. “Did you see that article in today’s
Times
?”
“Yes. Are you reading the newspapers now?”
“Someone told me to read that.”
“I see.’’ The article in question concerned an announcement made by Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, the United States Attorney for New York’s Southern District. Mr. Ferragamo stated that he was presenting evidence to a federal grand jury that was looking into allegations that Mr. Frank Bellarosa, an alleged underworld figure, was involved in the death of a Mr. Juan Carranza, a Colombian citizen and a reputed drug dealer. The federal government was involved in the case, Mr. Ferragamo stated, because both the victim and the suspect were reputed to be involved in ongoing interstate and international racketeering. Thus, the government was seeking a federal indictment for first-degree murder.
I always liked the
New York Times
’ understated style, calling everyone “Mr.,’’ and inserting lots of “reputed’’s and “alleged’’s. It all sounded so civilized. The
Times
should have heard what I heard in Bellarosa’s study: fucking Ferragamo, fucking Carranza, fucking Feds, spics, shitheads, and
melanzane
. I made a mental note to pick up tomorrow’s
New York Post
and
Daily News
and get the real scoop.
Susan said, “Carolyn and Edward will be home tomorrow or the next day. But only for a few weeks, I’m afraid.”
“I see.’’ Neither of them had come home directly after school. Carolyn had gone to the summer home of her roommate’s parents in Cape Cod, and Edward had remained at St. Paul’s for some vague reason, probably having to do with a girl. I asked Susan, “Where are they going in a few weeks?”
“Carolyn is going to Cuba with a student exchange group to promote world peace and perfect her Spanish. Edward and some other graduating seniors are going to Cocoa Beach where there is a house available to them. I don’t think they’re going to promote world peace.”
“Well, but that’s admirable on both counts. World peace begins with inner peace, with solving the problem of the groin area first.”
“That’s very profound, John.”
I don’t think she meant that. I should tell you that Susan finances these trips of Carolyn’s and Edward’s. The Stanhope money, in fact, has been a problem in the children’s upbringing from the beginning. I don’t say that Carolyn and Edward are spoiled; they are bright and they work hard in school. But their early nurturing was left to nannies hired by the Stanhopes. And their formative years were spent in boarding schools, which, while customary around here, is not mandatory. But I went along with it. So now, in a way, I barely know my children. I don’t know what they think, what they feel, or who they are. Neither does Susan. I think we missed something, and I think they did, too.
July, so far, sucked.
• • •
Lester Remsen called me at my Locust Valley office one morning. The purpose of the call was social not business. Or more accurately, it was the business of being social. “John,’’ he said, “we had a meeting up at the club last night, and the subject was you.”
“Who was at the meeting?”
“Well . . . that’s not important—”
“It most certainly is to me if I was the subject of the meeting.”
“It’s more important what the meeting was about. It was about—”
“If it’s important, Lester, we will present the topic at the next regularly scheduled meeting of the board. I will not be talked about behind my back in an unscheduled session of self-appointed busybodies who want to remain anonymous. This is a nation of law, and I am a lawyer.
Capisce?
”
“What?”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“While I have you on the phone, Lester, Mrs. Lauderbach called and told me you suggested she sell half her American Express and buy United Bauxite. Why?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why.’’ Whereupon he launched into a sales pitch.
I interrupted and asked, “What is bauxite?”
“It’s . . . it’s like . . . an important . . . I guess you’d say mineral. . . .”
“It’s aluminum ore. Hardworking men dig it out of the ground so people can have beer cans.”
“Who cares? I told you, it’s ten and a half today, a two-year low, and there’s talk of a takeover bid by American Biscuit. They’re a hot company. They make quality sporting goods.”
“Who makes biscuits? U.S. Steel?”
“USX. That’s U.S. Steel now. They make . . . steel.”
“Leave the Lauderbach account alone, Lester, or I’ll pull it from you.”
He mumbled something, then before I could hang up, he said, “Listen, John, let me return to the other thing for a moment. I want to talk to you about that. Just between us.”
“Talk.”
“First of all, I think you owe me an apology.”
“For what?”
“For what you said to me at the club.”
“I think you owe me an apology for having the audacity to try to involve me in a swindle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you to apologize for telling me to go fuck myself.”
“I apologize.”
“Oh . . . okay . . . next thing. The Bellarosa thing. I have to tell you, John, twenty years ago you’d have been asked to resign for that little stunt. We’re all a little looser now, but by the same token, we’re all a little more concerned about all these new people moving in. We don’t want the club to get a reputation for being a place where these people can come, even as guests. We certainly do not want it known that a notorious Mafia boss is a regular at The Creek.”
“Lester, I have no desire to cause you or other club members any distress. I am as big a snob as you are. However, if John Sutter wishes to sup with the devil at the club, it is no business of yours or anyone’s as long as no club rules are broken.”
“John, damn it, I’m talking about common sense and common courtesy, and yes, common decency—”
“And if you or anyone wishes to propose a house rule regarding alleged underworld figures, or the devil, I will probably vote for it. The days of gentlemen’s agreements and secret protocols are over, my friend, because there are no gentlemen left, and secret protocols are illegal. If we are to survive, we had better adapt, or we had better get tough and get a plan of action. We cannot stand around any longer complaining because it’s hard to dance on the deck of a sinking ship. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Then let me put it this way. My prediction is that by the end of this century, Frank Bellarosa will be on the club board, or perhaps there won’t be a Creek Country Club. And when it’s a town park or a shopping mall, everyone can go there, and we can complain about tight parking and rowdy kids.”
“You may be right,’’ said Lester unexpectedly. “But until then, John, we would appreciate it if you didn’t bring Mr. Bellarosa in as a guest.”
“I will think about that.”
“Please do,’’ Lester said. “My best regards to Susan.”
“And my regards to Judy. And Lester . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
* * *
I had decided to avoid The Creek for a while, partly because of my conversation with Lester, but mostly because I prefer to spend July at The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club.
So on a Friday evening, the day after Edward came home, and two days after Carolyn came home, Susan and I took the children to the yacht club for an early dinner, to be followed by a three-day sailing trip.
We took my Bronco, piled high with beer, food, and fishing gear. It was just like the old days, sort of, except that Carolyn was driving, and Edward wasn’t bouncing all over the place with excitement. He looked instead like an adolescent who had things on his mind; probably the girl he left behind at school. And Carolyn, well, she was a woman now, and someone, not me, had taught her to drive a stick shift. Where do the years go?
Anyway, we entered the grounds of The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The club, founded by William K. Vanderbilt, is located on Center Island, which is actually more of a peninsula, surrounded by Oyster Bay, Cold Spring Harbor, the Long Island Sound, and an aura of old money. A no-trespassing sign would be redundant.
We approached the clubhouse by way of a gravel drive. The house is a three-story building of gray cedar shingle and white trim, with a side veranda and gabled roofs. The building dates back to the 1880s and was built in a unique architectural style, which, on the East Coast, is called the American Shingle style. This is a sort of hybrid, combining native cedar shingles with classical ornamentation, though the classical touches are not of marble, but of white-painted wood. The clubhouse in fact had mock wooden pilasters all around, their capitals vaguely Corinthian, hence, I suppose, the club’s second name. The Seawanhaka are an extinct tribe of Long Island Indians. Thus, the club’s name, while as odd and hybrid as its architecture, has as its unifying theme the evocation of extinct civilizations, which may be fitting.
Anyway, it is a beautifully simple building, unpretentious, yet dignified, a combination of rough-hewn Americana with just a bit of frivolity, like an early settler in a homespun dress with imported ribbons in her hair.
Carolyn parked the Bronco and we climbed out, making our way to the clubhouse.
The dining room faces out onto Oyster Bay, and we took a table near the large, multi-paned window. I could see our boat, the thirty-six-foot Morgan, at the end of a distant pier. The boat is named
Paumanok
, after the old Indian name for Long Island.
I ordered a bottle of local wine, the Banfi chardonnay, produced on a former Vanderbilt estate that nearly became a housing tract. Perhaps, I thought, we could save the Stanhope estate by planting an expensive crop, maybe figs and olives, but I’d need a lot of sunlamps. Anyway, I poured wine for all of us and we toasted being together.
I believe that children should start drinking early. It gets them used to alcohol and removes the mystery and taboo. I mean, how cool can it be if your mother and father make you drink wine with dinner? It worked for me, and for Susan, too, because neither of us abused alcohol in our youth. Middle age is another matter.
We talked about school, about Carolyn’s trip to Cape Cod and Edward’s reluctance to leave St. Paul’s, which indeed had something to do with a girl, specifically an older girl who was a sophomore at nearby Dartmouth College. I fear that many of Edward’s life decisions will be influenced by his libido. I suppose that’s normal. I’m the same way, and I’m normal.

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