Frank sat down across from me. "That was a guy who used to work for me."

"The guy whose bones you broke?"

"No. Another guy."

"He looked familiar. Is his picture in the papers sometimes?"

"Sometimes."

I could see that Frank Bellarosa was a bit distracted. Obviously, that man had said something that upset my client. But whatever it was, I would probably never know about it.

It was apparent to me, however, that don Bellarosa was doing some politicking, some public relations on his own behalf, and that he had more personal appearances to make. I had the sense, too, that this was galling to him, but he was going to do it just the same. He might not compromise or make deals with the law or with blacks or Hispanics or with women. But he had to deal with his own kind, and he had to do it with just the right balance of force and respect. Bellarosa seemed to have come out of his pensive mood and he said to me, "Hey, you drink cappuccino, espresso, or American?"

"American."

He signalled a waiter and gave an order. The coffee came and behind it was a man carrying a tray of pastry. Mamma mia, I couldn't even swallow my own saliva anymore. But good old Frank, playing both host and waiter, insisted on describing each of the pastries before asking me to pick two for myself. There was no use declining, so I picked two, and he told me I didn't want those two and picked two others for me.

I nibbled at the pastry, which was good enough to find room for, and I also got my coffee down. We chatted with Patsy, with Lucio and his wife, and with a few of the waiters. Everyone seemed happy that the meal was coming to a bloodless conclusion. Patsy smiled at me. "You like everything?" "Very good."

"You come back for dinner. Okay?"

"Sure will."

Lucio and his wife were not smooth like Patsy, but I tried to draw them out.

"How long have you owned this place?"

Lucio replied, "It was my father's restaurant, and his father's restaurant."

"Your grandfather was Giulio?"

"Yes. He came from the other side and opened his restaurant, right here." He pointed to the floor.

"In what year?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe 1900."

I nodded. A real slick entrepreneur would have made the most of that: Giulio's; family-owned on Mott Street since 1899. (The last century always sounds better.) But I had the impression that Lucio was concerned only with the day's fare and his customers' satisfaction a meal at a time. Maybe that's why he was successful, like his father and his father's father.

The chef came out, complete with apron and chef's hat, which he removed prior to bowing to the don. Good Lord, you would have thought Bellarosa was a movie star or nobility. Actually, he was even more important than that; he was mafioso, and these people, mostly from Sicily and Naples, I suspected, had good ancestral memories.

We chatted a minute longer. They all could not have been friendlier, but nevertheless I felt a bit out of place, though not uncomfortable. Lucio and company could tell, of course, that I was an important person, but not an important Italian person. I felt actually like an American tourist in Italy. Frank stood and I stood, and the chairs were pulled away for us. Everyone was grinning wider as they held their breaths. A minute more and they could all collapse on the floor.

I realized that the only thing missing from this meal was the bill. But then Frank took a wad of cash from his pants pocket and began throwing fifties around the table. He hit the chef with a fifty, Patsy with a fifty, and three waiters with a fifty each. He even called over two young busboys and slipped them each a tenner. The man knew how to take care of people. We all bid each other buon giorno and ciao.

Lenny was already gone, and Vinnie was outside checking the street. I saw Lenny pull the Cadillac up in front of the restaurant, and Vinnie opened the rear car door while we were still inside the restaurant. Vinnie motioned through the glass door, and it was only then that Bellarosa exited the restaurant. I was right behind him but not too close. He slid into the backseat and I got in beside him. Vinnie jumped into the front and Lenny pulled quickly away. And this guy wanted to take the wives here? Get serious, Frank. But maybe he was just taking normal precautions. I mean, maybe even when peace reigned in the regions of the underworld, Frank Bellarosa was just a careful man. Maybe I would take Susan here with the Bellarosas. Couldn't hurt. Right? We travelled south on Mott Street, which is one-way like all of the narrow streets in the old part of Manhattan. Frank said to Lenny, "Plaza Hotel." Lenny cut west on Canal and swung north on Mulberry, driving through the heart of Little Italy. Bellarosa stared out the window awhile, recharging his Italian psyche. I wasn't sure, but I suspected that he did not walk these streets freely; that, like a celebrity, he saw most of the world through tinted car-windows. Somehow I felt sorry for him.

He turned to me and said, "I've been thinking. Maybe you had enough of this shit."

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. I didn't reply.

He went on, "You did what I needed you to do. You got me sprung. You know? Jack Weinstein can take over from here. He knows how to deal with those scumbags in the U.S. Attorney's office."

"It's up to you, Frank."

"Yeah. This could get messy. You got a nice law practice, you got a nice family. You got friends. People are gonna bust your balls. You and your wife go take a nice vacation someplace."

What a nice man. I wondered what he was up to. I said, "It's your decision, Frank."

"No, it's your decision now. I don't want you to feel pressured. No problem either way. You want, I'll drop you off at the train station. You go home." I guess it was time for me to bail out or take an oath of loyalty. The man was a manipulator. But I already knew that. I said, "Maybe you're right. You don't need me anymore."

He patted my shoulder. "Right. I don't need you. I like you." Just when I think I've got this guy figured out, I don't. So we went to the Plaza Hotel.

What I didn't know was that half the Mafia in New York were going to show up that night.

CHAPTER 29

The Plaza is my favourite hotel in New York, and I was glad that Frank and I shared the same taste in something, since I was apparently going to be there awhile.

We checked into a large three-bedroom suite overlooking Central Park. The staff seemed to appreciate who we were – or who Bellarosa was – but they were not as obvious about it as the paesanos at Giulio's, and no one seemed particularly nervous.

Frank Bellarosa, Vinnie Adamo, Lenny Patrelli, and John Whitman Sutter sat in the spacious living room of the suite. Room service delivered coffee and sambuca, and Pellegrino water for me (which I discovered is an antidote for Italian overindulgence). By now it was twenty minutes to five, and I assumed we all wanted to catch the five-o'clock news on television. I said to Frank, "Do you want to call your wife before five?"

"Oh, yeah." He picked up the telephone on the end table and dialled. "Anna? Oh…" He chuckled. "How you doin' there? Didn't recognize your voice. Yeah. I'm okay. I'm in the Plaza."

He listened for a few seconds, then said, "Yeah. Out on bail. No big deal. Your husband did a terrific job." He winked at me, then listened a bit more and said, "Yeah, well, we went for a little lunch, saw some people. First chance I had to call… No, don't wake her. Let her sleep. I'll call later." He listened again, then said, "Yeah. He's here with me." He nodded his head while my wife spoke to him, then said to her, "You want to talk to him?" Bellarosa glanced at me, then said into the phone, "Okay. Maybe he'll talk to you later. Listen, we got to stay here a few days… Yeah. Pack some stuff for him, and tell Anna I want my blue suit and grey suit, the ones I had made in Rome… Yeah. And shirts, ties, underwear, and stuff. Give everything to Anthony and let him send somebody here with it. Tonight. Okay?… Turn the news on. See what they got to say, but don't believe a word of it… Yeah." He laughed, then listened. "Yeah… Okay… Okay… See you later." He hung up, then almost as an afterthought, he said to me, "Your wife sends her love."