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Authors: Nelson DeMille

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BOOK: The Gold Coast
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And so we set sail for home, tacking through the wind, and fighting the tide, which was still running out. After about an hour with little headway, a weary Mr. Mancuso inquired, “Can’t you just start the engine?”
“I could, but sailing into the wind is very instructive. It’s a test of skill and patience. It is allegorical.”
“It’s a useless exercise,’’ declared the crew.
We rounded Plum Point, and the wind shifted in a more favorable direction, so we made better headway. Mr. Mancuso was kneeling on the foredeck, holding on to the rail. He seemed to enjoy the wind in the sails and the bow cutting through the water. I had advised him to put on a life jacket or tie on a lifeline, but he assured me he was an excellent swimmer. I called out to him, “Did you people screw me up with the IRS?”
He turned and looked at me, then called back, “No. But we know about that.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He added, “I didn’t do that. You have my word on that.”
I called over the sound of the wind and water, “Maybe not you, but someone in your office.”
“No. We don’t fool around with the IRS. It’s not legal, and we don’t trust them.”
“Then you couldn’t get me off the hook with them?”
“We could put in a good word for you. But I can’t promise you anything.”
But Frank Bellarosa and Mr. Melzer could unconditionally promise me things. How utterly depressing and demoralizing.
He called to me, “Would you like me to put in a good word for you?”
“Sure. Tell them I go to church and I’m a good sailor.”
“Will do. You want to plant some bugs for me?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. But you have to resign as his attorney. You have to be ethical.”
Mr. Mancuso was into ethics. I called to him, “Lower the jib.”
“The what?”
“The sail flapping over your head.”
He lowered the jib, then the staysail and the mainsail, and I started the engine. When you have an inexperienced crew, it’s best to go into port under power and avoid a major embarrassment, like plowing into a moored boat while people are having drinks on the clubhouse veranda.
We came alongside the pier, and I cut the engine as Mr. Mancuso expertly lassoed a piling. We secured the
Paumanok
, and we both went below to collect our things.
As Mr. Mancuso put on his tie and gun, he said to me, “You’re not defending Frank Bellarosa solely on the basis of your belief that he is innocent of this murder, Mr. Sutter. Any attorney can do that. I think you are just playing with high explosives because you enjoy the danger. Like sailing in a storm at night. I know life can get boring, Mr. Sutter, and people with time and money on their hands often need something to get their blood moving. Some men gamble, some race cars or boats, some climb mountains, some have affairs, some do it all.”
“At the same time?”
“But, Mr. Sutter, there is a price to pay for the thrill. There are consequences. Danger is dangerous.”
“I know that, Mr. Mancuso. Where did you get your law degree, if I may ask?”
“Georgetown.”
“Excellent. Can I double your salary, Mr. Mancuso? We need a Catholic. You have your twenty years in with the FBI.”
He smiled. “I’m not counting years, Mr. Sutter. I want to finish this job. If it takes another twenty years to smash the Mafia in New York, then, God willing, I’ll still be at it.”
“Please keep my offer in mind. It is a serious offer.”
“I appreciate the thought. It is seductive. But what I want to say to you, Mr. Sutter, is that evil is seductive, and—”
“What did you say?”
“Evil is seductive. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . .”
“And virtue is boring. Evil seems to pay better than virtue, but virtue, Mr. Sutter, is its own reward. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. I am an honest man. I am doing nothing dishonest with Frank Bellarosa.”
Mr. Mancuso put his jacket on and gathered his shoes and socks. “But being involved with Frank Bellarosa is unethical, immoral, and unwise. Very unwise.’’ He stepped closer to me in the small galley where we were standing. “Listen to me, Mr. Sutter. Forget that I asked you to bug Bellarosa’s house, and that he may be innocent of this particular charge. The man is
evil
. I like you, Mr. Sutter, and I want to give you good advice. Tell Frank Bellarosa to go away and stay away from you and your wife.’’ He actually grabbed me by the arm and put his face near mine. “I am the voice of truth and reality. Listen to my voice. That man will destroy you and your family. And it will be
your
fault, Mr. Sutter, not his fault. For the love of God, tell him to leave you alone.”
He was absolutely right, of course, so I said, “Thank you. I like you, Mr. Mancuso. You restore my faith in humanity, but not in much else. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
Mr. Mancuso released my arm. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sutter. Have a pleasant day.’’ He went up the companionway and disappeared on deck.
After a minute, I followed and saw him on the pier slipping into his shoes. There were a few other people around now, and they were all watching this man in a suit who had come off my boat. At least a few people probably thought that Mr. Mancuso was a friend of Mr. Bellarosa’s—as was John Sutter—and that Sutter and this Mafia fellow had just dumped a few bodies at sea.
I called out to Mr. Mancuso, “Ferragamo and Bellarosa belong in the same cell. You and I should go sailing again.”
He waved to me as he disappeared behind a big, berthed Allied fifty-five footer that I would buy if I had three hundred thousand dollars.
I got some polish from the locker and shined up a brass cleat until it gleamed in the sunlight.

 

Twenty-four
The week after Mr. Mancuso and I went sailing, I was helping George Allard plant boxtrees where the central wing of the stables had once been. It was hard work, and I could have had it done professionally, but I like planting trees, and George has an obsession with saving old skinflint Stanhope a few dollars.
When men work together, despite class differences, they revert to a natural and instinctive sort of comradeship. Thus, I found I was enjoying my conversation with George, and George himself seemed a little looser, joking and even making an indiscreet remark about his employer. “Mr. Stanhope,’’ said George, “offered the missus and me ten thousand dollars to leave the gatehouse. Who’s he think is going to do all this work if I weren’t here?”
“Mr. Stanhope may have a buyer for the entire estate,’’ I said.
“He’s got a buyer? Who?”
“I’m not sure he does, George, but Mr. Stanhope wants to be able to offer an empty gatehouse if and when he does, or he wants to be able to sell the gatehouse separately.”
George nodded. “Well, I don’t want to be a problem, but . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve looked at August Stanhope’s will, and it’s clear that you and Mrs. Allard have lifetime rights of tenancy. Don’t let William Stanhope pressure you, and don’t take his offer.’’ I added, “You couldn’t rent comparable housing for less than twenty thousand a year around here.”
“Oh, I know that, Mr. Sutter. It wasn’t much of an offer, and even if he offers more, I wouldn’t leave. This is my home.”
“Good. We need you at the gate.”
It was a hot day, and the work was heavy for a man his age. But men are competitive in this regard, and George was going to show me that he could keep up.
At noon, I said to him, “That’s enough for now. I’ll meet you back here at about two.”
I walked home and had lunch alone as Susan was out, then wrote to my sister, Emily. When I returned to meet George, I found him lying on the ground between unplanted trees. I knelt beside him, but there were no signs of life. George Allard was dead. The gates to Stanhope Hall were unguarded.
• • •
The wake, held in a funeral home in Locust Valley, was well attended by other elderly estate workers whom the Allards had known over the years. Interestingly, a few older gentry put in appearances as well, ladies and gentlemen of the old vanished world, looking like ghosts themselves, come to pay their respects to one of their own.
The Stanhopes, of course, felt obligated to come in from Hilton Head. They hadn’t actually wished George dead, of course, but you knew that the subject had come up in their private conversations over the years, and that it had come up in a way that if you overheard them, you might think they were looking forward to it.
Susan’s brother, Peter, still trying to find the meaning of life—this month in Acapulco—could not make it in to contemplate the meaning of death.
I was sorry that Carolyn could not be reached in time in Cuba, but Edward flew up from Cocoa Beach.
Many of my family in and around Locust Valley and Lattingtown stopped by the funeral home as they all knew and liked the Allards. My parents, according to Aunt Cornelia, had gone to Europe so I’ll never know if they would have driven in for the funeral, and I really don’t care, as all gestures on their part are meaningless, I’ve decided.
There was no reason for Emily to come in from Texas, as she didn’t know the Allards that well, but she sent me a check to give to Ethel. It is customary when an old servant dies to take up a collection for the widow, this being a holdover, I suppose, from the days before servants had life insurance or Social Security. A good number of people passed checks or cash to me to give to Ethel. William Stanhope knew this, of course, but didn’t come up with any cash of his own. His reasoning, I’m sure, was that he was still obligated to pay Ethel her monthly stipend, as per Augustus’s will, and that Ethel was still in the gatehouse, and now George was about to occupy a piece of the Stanhope family plot; though in point of fact, there is more Stanhope family plot left than there are Stanhopes left to occupy it. So he wasn’t giving away anything valuable, as usual.
There was no reason for the Bellarosas to come to the funeral home, of course, but Italians, as I’ve discovered over the years, rarely pass up a funeral. So Frank and Anna stopped in for ten minutes one afternoon, and their presence caused a small stir of excitement, as if they were celebrities. The Bellarosas knelt at the coffin and crossed themselves, then checked out the flower arrangement they’d sent—which incidentally took two men to carry in—then left. They looked as if they did this often.
The Remsens stopped by the funeral home late Friday afternoon—after the closing bell and before happy hour at The Creek—but they pointedly avoided me, though they chatted with Susan for a minute.
One would think that, in the presence of death, people would be compelled into a larger appreciation of life and a sharper perspective of its meaning. One would think that. But to be honest, whatever petty grievances I, myself, had outside the funeral parlor were the same ones I carried inside. Why should Lester Remsen or William Stanhope or anyone be any different?
People like the DePauws, Potters, Vandermeers, and so forth, who might have stopped by for a moment as our friends and neighbors out of a sense of noblesse oblige, sent flowers instead. I didn’t want to read anything into this, but I could have. I was sure they would make it to my funeral. Jim and Sally Roosevelt did come, and Jim was very good with Ethel, sitting for an hour with her and holding her hand. Sally looks good in black.
So we buried George Allard after church services at St. Mark’s on a pleasant Saturday morning. The cemetery is a few miles from Stanhope Hall, a private place with no name, filled with the departed rich, and in pharaonic style, with a few dozen loyal servants (though none of them had been killed for their master’s burials), and dozens of pets, and even two polo ponies, one of which was responsible for his rider’s death. The old rich insist on being batty right to the end, and beyond.
As I said, George was interred in the Stanhope plot, which is a good-size piece of land, and ironically the last piece of land the Stanhopes were destined to own on Long Island.
At graveside, there were about fifteen people in attendance, with the Reverend Mr. Hunnings officiating; there was the widow, Ethel, the Allards’ daughter, Elizabeth, her husband and their two children, William and Charlotte Stanhope, Susan, Edward, and I, plus a few other people whom I didn’t know.
On the way to the cemetery, the funeral cortege, as is customary, passed by the house of the deceased, and I saw that someone had put a funeral wreath on the gates of Stanhope Hall, something I hadn’t seen in years. Why that custom has died out is beyond me, for what could be more natural than to announce to the world, to unwary callers, that there has been a death in the house and that, no, we don’t want any encyclopedias or Avon products today.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’’ said the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, throwing a handful of soil atop the coffin. This is when clergy earn their pay. But Hunnings always struck me as a method actor who was playing the part of a priest in a long-running off-Broadway show. Why do I dislike this man? Maybe because he’s conned everyone else. But George had seen through him.
Hunnings actually delivered a nice eulogy, though I noticed that he never once mentioned the possibility of heaven as a real place. No use talking about a place you’ve never been to and have no chance of ever going to.
Anyway, I was glad, in some perverse way, that I was the last one to see George alive and that we had spoken, and that he died doing what he liked best and where he liked doing it. I had spoken to Ethel and to his daughter, Elizabeth, about our last conversation, and of course, I embellished it a bit in an effort to bring them some comfort. But basically George had been a happy man on the day he died, and that was more than most of us can hope for.
I, myself, would not mind dropping dead on my own property, if I owned any property. But better yet, perhaps, I’d like to die on my boat, at sea, and be buried at sea. The thought of dying at my desk upsets me greatly. But if I could choose how and when I wanted to die, I would want to be an eighty-year-old man shot by a jealous young husband who had caught me in bed with his teenage wife.
The graveside service was ended, and we all threw a flower on the casket as we filed past on our way to our cars.
As I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, “Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her.”
“I understand,’’ I replied, then added, “No, I’ll go back for her.’’ It’s so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.
Elizabeth replied, “That would be nice. Thank you. We’ll see you back at the church.’’ Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. “Where is Edward?’’ I inquired of Susan.
“He is riding with his grandparents.”
“All right.’’ I fell in behind someone’s car and exited the cemetery.
Burial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you’re a member of St. Mark’s, you usually gather after the funeral at the church’s fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It’s not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.
As I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel’s decision not to go along with the planned program, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.
Susan said to me, “That was very thoughtful of you.”
I replied, “I am an uncommonly thoughtful man.”
Susan didn’t second that, but asked me, “Would you weep over my grave?”
I knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, “It would really depend on the circumstances.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, what if we were divorced?”
There was a second of silence, then she said, “You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years.”
“Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?’’ I added, “Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever.”
“You Italian, or what?’’ She laughed.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing . . . anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives—Mater and Pater to be specific—to take a hike.”
“Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other’s funeral.”
“I will be at yours. You have my word on that.”
I didn’t like this subject, so I changed it. “Do you think Ethel will be all right alone in the gatehouse?”
“I’ll check on her more often. Perhaps we’ll have her to dinner a few times a week.”
“Good idea.’’ Actually, it wasn’t, as I don’t care for Ethel’s company, though I care for her as a person, even if she is a socialist. She might be better off living with her Republican daughter, but I didn’t think that was a possibility.
I noticed, too, that William Stanhope had been eyeing her as though he were sizing her up for a casket. I had no doubt that he would pull me off to the side sometime in the next few days and ask me to suggest to Ethel that she leave the gatehouse. William, of course, was desirous of selling the quaint house to yuppies, or successful artists, or anyone with a romantic bent and about a quarter million dollars. Or of course, if anything came of Bellarosa’s interest in the entire estate, then, as I’d said to George, William would like all the serfs gone (unless he could sell them as well).
Naturally, I would assure my father-in-law that I would do my best to get old Ethel out, but actually I’d do the opposite as I’d done with George just a few days ago. William Stanhope is a monumental prick, and so outrageously insensitive and self-centered that he actually believes he can ask me for my help in enriching him, and I’m supposed to do his bidding (for free) because I’m married to his daughter. What a swine.
“Mother and Father looked good,’’ Susan said. “Very tan and fit.”
“It’s good to see them again.”
“They’re staying for three or four more days.”
“Can’t they stay longer?”
She gave me a sidelong glance, and I realized I was pushing my credibility. I hadn’t told William or his wife to go to hell yet, as I’d promised myself I would, and I’m glad I hadn’t because that could only confuse the issue between Susan and me.
I pulled up to the church, and Susan opened her door. “That was very touching. I mean what Ethel did, staying behind to be with her husband. They were together a half century, John. They don’t make marriages like that anymore.”
BOOK: The Gold Coast
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