The Gold Coast (65 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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I glanced at Bellarosa as I flipped through the indictment. He noticed and said to me, “They named the guys who testified against me. Right?”
“Yes. Four men and one woman.”
“Oh, yeah. Carranza’s girlfriend. I remember that from the papers.’’ He asked, “She said she saw me?”
“Yes.”
He nodded but said nothing.
I said to him, “They’re all under the federal witness protection program.”
“That’s good. Nobody can hurt them.’’ He smiled.
I said to him, “They won’t make good witnesses for a jury. They’re not upright citizens.”
He shrugged and went back to his newspaper.
Lenny stopped in front of a coffee shop on Broadway. Vinnie took coffee orders, then went inside to fetch four containers.
We drove through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, then came back into Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel.
The car phone in the rear rang, and Bellarosa motioned for me to answer it, so I did. “Hello?”
A familiar voice, a man, asked, “Is Mr. Bellarosa there?”
John Sutter is a fast learner, so I replied, “No, he’s at Mass. Who is this?”
Bellarosa chuckled.
The man answered my question with one of his own. “Is this John Sutter?”
“This is Mr. Sutter’s valet.”
“I don’t like your sense of humor, Mr. Sutter.”
“Most people don’t, Mr. Ferragamo. What can I do for you?’’ I looked at Bellarosa.
“I would like your permission to speak to your client.”
Bellarosa already had his hand out for the phone, so I gave it to him. “Hello, Al. . . . Yeah. . . . Yeah, well, he’s kind of new to this. You know?’’ He listened for a while, then said, “You ain’t playing the game, either, goombah. You got no right to complain about this.’’ He listened again, a bored expression on his face. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. So what? Look, you gotta do what you gotta do. Am I complaining? You hear me shooting my mouth off?”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, of course, but I couldn’t believe the end I
was
hearing. These guys were talking as if they’d just had a disagreement over a game of boccie ball or something.
Bellarosa said, “You think I’m gonna use dirty money for bail? Check it out, Al. You find it’s dirty, it’s yours, and I’ll come back to jail. . . . Yeah. Save yourself some time. Don’t get technical.’’ He glanced at me, then said into the phone, “He’s an okay guy. Get off his case. He’s a real citizen. An important citizen. You don’t fuck with him, Al. You fuck with him, you got serious problems.
Capisce
?”
Me?
Was he talking about
me?
Bellarosa said to the U.S. Attorney, “I’m sorry you’re pissed off, but you should just think about it. Okay? . . . Yeah. I’ll do that. Catch you on TV tonight, right?’’ Bellarosa laughed. “Yeah. Okay. See ya.’’ He hung up and went back to his newspaper.
Madonna mia
. These people were crazy. I mean, it was as if they were playing at being Americans in public, but between themselves some sort of ancient ritual was taking place.
No one spoke for a while, then Bellarosa looked up from his paper and asked his boys, “Okay?”
Lenny replied, “I never spotted nobody, boss.”
Bellarosa glanced at his watch, then asked me, “You hungry?”
“No.”
“You need a drink?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I got just the place.’’ He said to Lenny, “Drive over to Mott Street. We’ll get a little lunch.”
Caffè Roma is a fairly famous spot in the heart of Little Italy. I’d been there a few times for dinner with out-of-towners. But it wasn’t on Mott Street. I said to Bellarosa, “Mulberry Street.”
“What?”
“Caffè Roma is on Mulberry Street.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re not going there. We’re going to Giulio’s on Mott Street.”
I shrugged.
He saw that I didn’t appreciate the significance of what he was saying, so he gave me a lesson. “Something else you got to remember, Counselor—what you say you’re doing and what you’re doing don’t have to be the same thing. Where you say you’re going and where you’re going are never the same place. You don’t give information to people who don’t need it or to people who could give it to other people who shouldn’t have it. You’re a lawyer. You know that.”
Indeed I did, but a lunch destination was not the kind of information I kept secret or lied about.
But then again, nobody wanted to shoot me at lunch.

 

 

Twenty-eight
Little Italy is not far from Foley Square and is also close to Police Plaza, the FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza, and the state and city criminal courts. These geographical proximities are a convenience to attorneys, law enforcement people, and occasionally to certain persons residing in Little Italy who might have official business with one of these government agencies. So it was that we could actually have pulled up in front of Giulio’s Restaurant on Mott Street in Little Italy within five minutes of leaving Foley Square. But instead, because of other considerations, it took us close to an hour. On the other hand, it was only now noon, time for lunch.
Giulio’s, I saw, was an old-fashioned restaurant located on the ground floor of one of those turn-of-the-century, six-story tenement buildings bristling with fire escapes. There was a glass-paneled door to the left, and to the right, a storefront window that was half-covered by a red café curtain. Faded gold letters on the window spelled out the word
GIULIO
’
S
.
There was nothing else in the window, no menus, no press clippings, and no credit-card stickers. The establishment did not look enticing or inviting. As I mentioned, I come to Little Italy now and then, usually with clients, as Wall Street is not far away. But I’ve never noticed this place, and if I had, I wouldn’t have stepped inside. In truth, my clients (and I) prefer the slick Mulberry Street restaurants, filled with tourists and suburbanites who stare at one another, trying to guess who’s Mafia.
Lenny drove off to park the car, and Vinnie entered the restaurant first. I guess he was the point man. I stood on the sidewalk with Bellarosa, who had his back to the brick wall and was looking up and down the street. I asked him, “Why are we standing outside?”
Bellarosa replied, “It’s good to let them know you’re coming.”
“I see. And you really can’t call ahead, can you?”
“No. You don’t want to do that.”
“Right.’’ He never looked at me, but kept an eye on the block. There are many fine restaurants in Little Italy, all trying to keep a competitive edge. A shortcut to fame and fortune sometimes occurs when a man like don Bellarosa comes in and gets shot at his table. A terrible headline flashed in front of my eyes:
DANDY DON AND MOUTHPIECE HIT
.
I asked my lunch companion, “Has anyone been knocked off here?”
He glanced at me. “What? Oh . . . no. Yeah. Once. Yeah, back in the Prohibition days. Long time ago. You like fried squid?
Calamaretti fritti?
”
“Probably not.”
Vinnie opened the door and stuck his head out. “Okay.”
We entered. The restaurant was long and narrow, and the rows of tables had traditional red-checkered cloths. The floor was ancient white ceramic tile, and the ceiling was that pressed tin with glossy white paint on it. Three ceiling fans spun lazily, keeping the smell of garlic circulating. On the plain white, plaster walls were cheap prints, all showing scenes of sunny Italy. The place wasn’t much to look at, but it was authentic.
There weren’t many diners, and I could see waiters standing around in red jackets, all stealing glances at don Bellarosa. A man in a black suit rushed toward us, his hand prematurely extended, and he and Bellarosa greeted each other in Italian. Bellarosa called him Patsy, but did not actually introduce him to me, though he was obviously the maître d’.
Patsy showed us to a corner table in the rear. It was a nice comfortable table with good fields of fire.
Lenny had arrived, and he and Vinnie took a table near the front window with a good view of the door. Now we had interlocking fields of fire, which was the first requirement for a pleasant lunch at Giulio’s.
Patsy was obsequious, the waiters bowed and bowed and bowed as we walked by, and a man and a woman, apparently the owner and his wife, ran out of the kitchen and stopped just short of prostrating themselves on the floor. Everyone was grinning except Frank, who had this sort of Mafia poker face on that I’d never seen before. I said to him, “Come here often?”
“Yeah.’’ He said something to the owner in Italian, and the man ran off, perhaps to kill himself, I thought, but he returned shortly with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. Patsy uncorked the wine but Frank poured. Finally, after a lot of fussing around our table, everyone left us alone. Frank banged his glass against mine and said, “
Salute
!”
“Cheers,’’ I replied, and drank the wine, which tasted like grappa diluted with tannic acid.
Yuk
!
Frank smacked his lips. “Aahh . . . that’s good. Special stuff. Direct from the other side.”
They should have left it there.
A few more people had entered, and I looked around. The clientele at lunch hour seemed to be mostly locals, mostly men, and mostly old, wearing baggy suits without ties. I could overhear a mixture of English and Italian around me.
There were a few younger men in good suits, and like a vampire who can tell its own kind at a glance, I recognized them as Wall Street types, trendy twerps who had “discovered’’ Giulio’s the way Columbus discovered America, i.e., it ain’t there until I find it.
Here and there I noticed tables at which were men who I thought might be in Frank’s business. And in fact, Frank nodded to a few of these people, who nodded back. Despite the informality of the place and the fact that it was warm, only the Wall Street twerps and a few of the old men had removed their jackets. The rest of the clientele, I was sure, were either wearing shoulder holsters or wanted everyone to think they were. Frank, I knew, could not be armed, as he had just been through a booking and search. Lenny and Vinnie, I knew,
were
armed. I was basically unarmed, except for my three-hundred-dollar Montblanc pen and my American Express Gold Card.
I said to my client, “Are you satisfied with the way it went this morning?”
He shrugged. “It went like it went. I got no complaints with you.”
“Fine. Do you want to discuss the charge against you? The defense?”
“I told you, it’s bullshit. It’s not getting to trial.”
“It could. Ferragamo had five witnesses for the grand jury. Those witnesses said enough to implicate you in the murder of Juan Carranza.”
“Ferragamo’s probably got something on them. They maybe saw the hit, but they didn’t see my face there.”
I nodded. “Okay. I believe you.”
“Good. Then you did the right thing today.”
“No. I committed perjury.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The owner, whose name was Lucio, came by with a bowl of fried onion rings, and a waiter put down two small plates.
“
Mangia
,’’ Frank said as he took a clawful of the onion rings.
“No, thanks.”
“Come on. Eat.”
They weren’t onion rings, of course, but I was trying to pretend they were. I put a few of the things on my plate, then put one in my mouth and washed it down with the Chianti. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
There was a big loaf of Italian bread sitting right on the tablecloth, unsliced, and Frank ripped it apart with his big mitts and flipped a few pieces my way. I didn’t see a bread plate and probably never would. I ate some of the bread, which was the best I’ve ever had.
Between chews, Bellarosa said, “You see what I mean about how law-abiding I am? Mancuso came in by himself, and I’m waiting for the fucking cuffs. Now how do you think they take a spic out of one of those social clubs? They go in there with a fucking battalion, armed to the fucking teeth, and they got to beat off spics and drag the guy out screaming. Half the time somebody gets a split head or gets shot. You see the difference? You think Mancuso is a fucking hero? No. He knew I wasn’t going to put him away.”
“Still, Frank, that took balls.”
He smiled. “Yeah. That little, skinny wop bangs on my door and says, ‘You’re under arrest.’ Yeah.’’ He added, “But you think Mancuso is going to be a star? No fucking way. Ferragamo runs his show his way, and he’s the star. You’ll see on the news.”
Unbidden, the waiter brought over a bowl of what looked like scallops covered with red sauce. Bellarosa shoveled some on my plate beside the fried squid. He said, “This is
scungilli.
Like . . . conch. Like a shellfish.
Sono buone
.”
“Can I order something from the menu?”
“Try that. Try it.’’ He dug into his whatever it was. “Eat. Come on.”
I positioned my wine and a piece of bread, swallowed a piece of the conch, drank the Chianti, and bit on the bread.
“You like it?”
“
Sono buone
.”
He laughed.
We ate, drank, and talked awhile. No one offered us a menu, and I noticed that most of the customers were not using menus but were talking food with the waiters in a mixture of Italian and English. The waiters seemed friendly, happy, enthusiastic, knowledgeable, patient, and helpful. Obviously they weren’t French.
It struck me as I sat there that this restaurant could have been a hundred years old, older than The Creek, older than The Seawanhaka Corinthian. And very little in the restaurant had changed, not the decor, the cuisine, or the clientele. In fact, Little Italy was a sort of time warp, a bastion of Italian immigrant culture that seemed to be resisting change and assimilation against all odds. If I had to bet on what would last into the next century—the Gold Coast or Little Italy—I’d bet on Little Italy. Similarly, I’d put my money on Giulio’s over The Creek.
I regarded Frank Bellarosa as he ate. He looked more comfortable here, obviously, than he had in The Creek. But beyond that, he belonged here, was part of this place, part of the local color, the fabric and decor of Giulio’s, and Mott Street. I watched him, his tie loosened, a napkin stuffed in his collar, and his hands darting around the table, relaxed in the knowledge that no one was going to take anything away from him; not his food, nor his pride.
We were working on our second bottle of Chianti, and I said to him, “You’re from Brooklyn. Not Little Italy.”
“Yeah. But most of Brooklyn’s gone. My old neighborhood is gone. This is still the place. You know?”
“How so?”
“I mean, like every Italian in New York comes here at least once in his life. Most come once or twice a year. It makes them feel good, you know, because they live in the suburbs now, and maybe their old neighborhood is full of blacks or Spanish, or something, so they can’t go back there, so they come here. This is everybody’s old neighborhood.
Capisce?
Well, maybe not your old neighborhood.’’ He laughed. “Where you from?”
“Locust Valley.”
“Yeah. You don’t have far to go home.”
“It gets farther every year.”
“Well, I like to come down here, you know, to walk on the streets, smell the bakeries, smell the cheese, smell the restaurants. Lots of people come for San Gennaro—you know, the Feast of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Napoli . . . Naples. They come for St. Anthony’s feast, too. They come here to eat Italian, see Italians, feel Italian. You understand?”
“Is that why you come here?”
“Yeah. Sometimes. I have some business here, too. I see people here. I got my club here.”
“The Italian Rifle Club?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Sure. You took me to The Creek.’’ He smiled. “I take Jack Weinstein there. He loves it. I get him drunk and take him down to the basement and let him blast the targets. I got a silhouette target down there that says ‘Alphonse Ferragamo.’” He laughed.
I smiled. “I think they throw darts at my picture in the IRS office.”
“Yeah? Darts? Fuck darts.’’ He stuck his finger at me and cocked his thumb. “Ba-boom, ba-boom. That’s how you make holes in targets.”
He finished another glass of wine and repoured for both of us. The Chianti was getting better. By the third bottle it would taste like Brunello di Montalcino, 1974.
I looked around the restaurant again. During my mental absence it had gotten full and was noisy now, lively and hopping. I said to Bellarosa, “I like this place.”
“Good.”
Actually, I was feeling better. Sort of like the high you get after a close call. I couldn’t come to terms with the perjury, you understand, but I was working on it. In fact, I took my daybook out of my pocket and, for the first time, turned to January fourteenth. I write in ink, partly because, as an attorney, I know that my daybook is a quasi-legal document and, therefore, should be done in ink in the event it ever had to be shown as evidence. On the other hand, I always use the same pen, the Montblanc with the same nib and the same black Montblanc ink, so if I had to add something after the fact, I could. But I don’t like to do that.
Anyway, with some real trepidation, knowing a lot rode on this, I looked at the space for January fourteenth and read:
Light snow. Home in
A
.
M
., lunch with Susan at Creek, Locust Valley office
P
.
M
., meet with staff, 4
P
.
M
.

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