Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Gold Coast (48 page)
“I guess not.”
“Good. Stick around. Get lots of sleep on Monday nights. All right? Practice what you’re gonna say in court. Get your brass balls on for the fucking Feds. We’re gonna look good in court.’’ He looked at me. “No jail, Counselor. No jail. That’s what I promised you, that’s what you promise me. You understand?”
“I promise I will do my best.”
“Good.’’ He stood and slapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, I got another problem. In Brooklyn, I got tomatoes the size of bull balls. Here it is the middle of July, and I got these small green things. But I see you got nice big ones, and those are the plants I gave you. Remember? So the soil must be different. I’m not embarrassed or anything, but this is hard to understand. So what I want is to trade you some of your tomatoes for something. I got lots of string beans. Okay? Deal?”
I don’t like string beans, but we shook on it.
Twenty-three
Some days after the Fox Point powwow, I was up at the yacht club doing light maintenance on the Morgan. It was a weekday morning, and I was playing hooky from work, as usual. My partners had not commented directly on my extended absences, partly because they expect it in the summer, but also because they assume I am conscientious and would not let the firm down. In fact, they were wrong; my work was piling up, calls went unanswered, and the Locust Valley office had no one at the helm. People work better unsupervised anyway.
Though I enjoy tinkering around the boat, I enjoy sailing it more. But with a sailboat, you really should have at least two people aboard, and it’s sometimes difficult to find a crew during the workday. Carolyn and Edward were gone, of course, and Susan is only moderately enthusiastic about sailing, as I am about riding, and she begged off.
There are friends who might be around during the week, but I’d been avoiding people lately. One can always rustle up a few college kids to crew, but in some irrational way, because I missed my own children, I didn’t feel like having other kids around. So, today, I contented myself with putting my boat in order.
I was aware of leather-soled footsteps coming toward me on the pier. It was low tide, so I had to look up from the deck and squint into the morning sun to see who it was. Whoever it was, he was wearing a suit. He stopped and said, “Permission to come aboard.”
“Not in those shoes.”
So Mr. Mancuso, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, dutifully removed his shoes, then jumped down onto the teak deck in his stocking feet. “Good morning,’’ he said.
“
Buon giorno
,’’ I replied.
Buon giorno
,’’ I replied.
He smiled with his big Chiclets. “I’m here to bring some aggravation and worry into your life.”
“I’m already married.’’ That was a pretty good one, and he smiled wider. He wasn’t a laugher, but he did appreciate my wit. He was on the right track.
He said, “Do you have a few minutes?”
“For my country, Mr. Mancuso, I have nothing but time. However, I’m out of money and short on patience.’’ I went about my business, which, at that moment, was coiling some half-inch line.
Mr. Mancuso set his shoes down on the deck and watched me a moment, then looked around. “Nice boat.”
“Thank you.”
“Nice place.’’ He waved his arm around, encompassing the whole club. “First-class operation.”
“We try.’’ I finished with the line and regarded Mr. Mancuso a moment. He was as sallow as when I’d last seen him in April. He wore a light-beige suit of summer wool, which was well cut, a good shirt and tie, and, as I was able to see clearly, very nice socks. However, the frizzy fringe of hair and the woolly tuft still amused me.
He said, “You want to talk here, Mr. Sutter? You feel comfortable here? You want to go inside the boat? Someplace else?”
“How long is a few minutes?”
“Maybe half an hour. Hour.”
I considered a moment, then asked him, “You sail?”
“No.”
“You do now. You probably won’t need that tie and jacket.”
“Probably not.’’ He took off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that held a big automatic, perhaps a Browning.
I glanced around at the nearby boats, then said to him, “Maybe you want to stow that below. You know, inside the boat.’’ I pointed. “That’s called below.”
“Sure.’’ He ducked down the companionway and reappeared a few minutes later, tieless and barefoot now, his cuffs and shirtsleeves rolled up. He looked even more ludicrous. I stood at the helm and started the engine. “You know how to cast off?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
And he did. Within a few minutes we were under way. The Morgan’s helm is a spoked mahogany wheel, and I stood there at it, feeling in control of something for a change. I would have preferred to be under sail, but with Mancuso as my crew I thought I’d better let the engine take us clear of the moored boats and shoals.
I took the
Paumanok
around Plum Point into Cold Spring Harbor, still under power, and pointed the bow north toward the Sound, then slowed the engine. Still at the helm I said to Mr. Mancuso, “See that winch? Crank that and it will raise the mainsail.”
Paumanok
around Plum Point into Cold Spring Harbor, still under power, and pointed the bow north toward the Sound, then slowed the engine. Still at the helm I said to Mr. Mancuso, “See that winch? Crank that and it will raise the mainsail.”
He did as he was told and the mainsail went up. A light breeze caught it, and the
Paumanok
moved through the water. I cut the engine and told him how to trim the sail, then I got him to raise the jib, and we started to make some headway. Poor Mr. Mancuso was scrambling all over the decks in his good wool trousers, which, I’m afraid, were ruined. All in all, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I was happy for this unexpected opportunity to sail. Mr. Mancuso, of course, wanted to speak to me about something, but for the time being he seemed content to have been shanghaied aboard the
Paumanok
.
Paumanok
moved through the water. I cut the engine and told him how to trim the sail, then I got him to raise the jib, and we started to make some headway. Poor Mr. Mancuso was scrambling all over the decks in his good wool trousers, which, I’m afraid, were ruined. All in all, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I was happy for this unexpected opportunity to sail. Mr. Mancuso, of course, wanted to speak to me about something, but for the time being he seemed content to have been shanghaied aboard the
Paumanok
.
Mr. Mancuso was a fast learner, at least as far as terminology, and within an hour, he knew a boom from a spreader, the headstay from the backstay, and presumably his ass from his elbow.
As I said, the wind was light, but it was from the south and got us well out into the Sound. About three miles off Lloyd’s Neck, I showed him how to lower the sails. The wind was still southerly and the tide was ebbing, so we drifted safely away from the shore and shallow water. Still, I returned to the helm and played captain. I asked Mr. Mancuso, “Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes. I really did.”
“It’s more fun at night with high winds and heavy seas. Especially if your engine conks.”
“Why is that, Mr. Sutter?”
“Because you think you’re going to die.”
“That does sound like fun.”
“But, of course, the objective is not to die. So you put out your trysails and see if you can run before the wind to safety. Or maybe you lower all your sails, put the engine on full power, and head into the wind. There are other times when you might want to ride to a sea anchor. You have to make intelligent decisions. Not like with desk work where it really doesn’t matter.”
He nodded. “About once a year I have to make a decision about pulling my gun. So I can appreciate what you’re saying.”
“Good.’’ Having gotten the “my balls are as big as your balls’’ stuff out of the way, I went below and poured two mugs of coffee from my thermos and brought them up. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
I stood at the helm in my faded jeans and T-shirt, one hand resting on the wheel, the other holding my mug. I really looked good. I regarded Mr. Mancuso with his silly outfit and his pale skin, sitting on a cushioned locker. I said to him, “Did you say you wanted to speak to me about something?”
He seemed to be contemplating what it was he’d wanted to say, as if perhaps it was no longer relevant. Finally, he said, “Mr. Sutter, I have been an FBI agent for nearly twenty years.”
“It must be interesting.”
“Yes. Most of that time has been spent in various organized-crime task forces. The Mafia is my special area of concern.”
“Did you want sugar with that? I have no milk.”
“No, thanks. So, I’ve seen a lot of what life is like in the underworld, Mr. Sutter, and there is nothing romantic about it.”
“Who ever said there was?”
“They hurt people, Mr. Sutter. They sell drugs to children, force young girls into prostitution, extort money from honest businessmen. They engage in loan-sharking activities and beat people who can’t make their payments. They corrupt unions and politicians—”
“I’m not sure who corrupts whom in that case.”
“They murder people—”
“They murder other types of scum. They do not murder cops, businessmen, judges, or people like you or me, Mr. Mancuso. I hear what you’re saying, but the average citizen is more concerned with, and outraged by, random street violence, rapists, muggers, car thieves, armed robbers, burglars, and drug-crazed maniacs running around. I personally know people whose lives have been touched by those sorts of criminals, and so do you. I don’t know anyone personally who has been a victim of the Mafia.
Capisce?”
Capisce?”
He smiled at that word, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, I understand that, Mr. Sutter. But admit that organized crime and racketeering are hurting the entire nation in insidious ways that—”
“Okay. I admit it. And I told you I’d sit on a jury in a Mafia case. That’s more than a lot of citizens would do. You know why? Because they are frightened, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Well, there you are, Mr. Sutter. People
are
frightened by mobsters. People—”
are
frightened by mobsters. People—”
“Well, of course they would be frightened if they had to sit on a jury. But that’s a remote possibility. What people are really frightened of is walking down the street at night.”
“The FBI doesn’t patrol the streets, Mr. Sutter. What you’re talking about is another issue.”
“Well, then, let’s talk about the Mafia.
Why
would the average citizen be frightened to sit on a jury or testify in an organized-crime case? I’ll tell you why; because
you
are not doing your job.”
Why
would the average citizen be frightened to sit on a jury or testify in an organized-crime case? I’ll tell you why; because
you
are not doing your job.”
For the first time, Mr. Mancuso seemed annoyed with me. In truth, he had shown a good deal of patience on this occasion and the last, but I could see I’d gotten to him. Actually, I was only blowing smoke at him, and I wanted him to tell me that everything was under control, that the republic was safe, and that I would be able to walk the streets of New York in a few more weeks, maybe a month. But that wasn’t the case. He did, however, give me some hopeful news.
He put his mug on the deck and stood. He said, “In fact, Mr. Sutter, we are doing our job. In fact, sir, we are winning the war against organized crime.”
“Have you told the Mafia this?”
“They know it very well. Better than the American public, which is fed mostly bad news. But let me give you a good-news headline:
MAFIA ON THE RUN
.”
MAFIA ON THE RUN
.”
I smiled but said nothing.
Mr. Mancuso went on, “Since 1984, Mr. Sutter, the federal government has obtained hundreds of convictions under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act—the RICO Act. We have seized millions of dollars in property and cash, and we have destroyed or seriously damaged nearly all of the twenty-four organized-crime families in this country. There is only one remaining stronghold of the Mafia in America, and that is here in New York. And of New York’s five traditional crime families, four have been crippled by prosecutions and by death and by early retirements. The old legendary dons are all gone now. The caliber of the remaining leadership is very low. Only one family remains strong, and only one leader commands respect.”
“Who could that be?”
Mr. Mancuso, having delivered himself of this satisfying monologue, smiled. “You know who.”
I asked him, “What is your point?”
“Well, the point, obviously, is Frank Bellarosa and your relationship with him.”
“I see.’’ Mr. Mancuso had intrigued me, and it occurred to me that he could answer some questions for me, rather than vice versa. I asked him, “How rich is Mr. Bellarosa?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “We estimate that his illegal empire grosses about six hundred million dollars a year—”
“Six hundred
million? Mamma mia
, Mr. Mancuso.”
million? Mamma mia
, Mr. Mancuso.”
Mr. Mancuso smiled. “Yes. But I don’t know how much profit there is and how much of that he keeps personally. We do know that he is involved in fourteen legitimate businesses—”
“Sixteen.”
Mr. Mancuso regarded me a moment, then continued, “Fourteen or more legitimate businesses, from which he showed a taxable income last year of five and a half million dollars.”
“And he paid his taxes?”
“Oh, yes. Overpaid, actually. The IRS refunded him some two hundred thousand dollars. He had a serious tax problem some years back that sent him away for nineteen months. So he’s very careful with his taxes on his legitimate income.’’ Mr. Mancuso added, “I would not be surprised if he asked you to do his tax work at some point.”
I didn’t reply, but asked, “Why do you suppose he’s not satisfied with five million legitimate dollars a year?”
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