You have to show it.

And so, when the opportunity to do so presented itself, ironically through the person of Frank Bellarosa himself, the husband, showing more ego than judgement, proceeded to ruin his life so he could show everyone a thing or two. Did I have any regrets as of that moment? Not a one, really. In fact, I felt better than I'd felt in a long time. I knew I would.

I stepped out of the shower and dried myself off. In the misty mirror I drew a nice big smiling face. "Smile, stupid, you got what you wanted." It was a wild night. The phone rang nonstop, and people came and went. Obviously, the don was not in hiding, but had simply moved his court from Alhambra to the Plaza.

There were phone calls from the news media, too, and I suppose the word had gotten out via the hotel staff, or perhaps some of the invited guests. But Bellarosa was taking no calls from the press and told me not to make any statements until the morning. A few enterprising, not to mention gutsy, reporters had actually shown up at the door of the suite and were greeted by Vinnie, official gatekeeper for don Bellarosa, who had a funny line. "I'll let ya in but ya ain't gettin' out." No one accepted the invitation. But I could have sworn I heard Jenny Alvarez's voice arguing with Vinnie. Waiters set up a bar and brought food all night. The television was on constantly, tuned to an all-news channel that re-ran the Bellarosa story every half hour or so with a few variations. I could barely hear the television above the chatter, but I could see Bellarosa and Sutter walking down those courthouse steps every half hour.

Most of the men who arrived at the suite seemed to be vassals of the great padrone, captains and lieutenants in his own organization. They hugged and kissed him, and the lesser of them satisfied themselves with a handshake. A few older men actually bowed as they took his hand. Obviously, they were there to swear fealty to this man who was their don. Bizarre, I thought; this so-called empire of Bellarosa's sort of reminded me of a medieval principality where none of the affairs of state or the rules of behaviour were written down, but simply understood, and where oaths were binding on pain of death, and court intrigue was rampant, and succession to power was accomplished through a mixture of family blood, consensus, and assassination.

The men present were dressed in standard Mafia suits of blue, grey, and black, some with pinstripes. The suits could almost pass for Wall Street, but there was something subtly different about them, and the dress shirts ran mostly to shiny satin or silk, and the ties were drab monotones. There were lots of gold cuff links, expensive watches, even jewelled tiepins, and every left pinky in that room had a diamond ring, except mine.

The men around me spoke mostly in English, but every once in a while, someone would say something in Italian; just a line or two that I couldn't understand, of course. I regretted that I'd wasted eight years in French class. I mean, what can you do with French? Insult waiters? I did get lucky in Montreal once, but that's another story.

Anyway, not everyone who came to the Plaza suite was there to pay homage and swear loyalty. A few men showed up with their own retinues, men with unpleasant faces whose embraces and kisses were strictly for show. These were men who were there for information. Among them were the four whom Bellarosa had sat with at Giulio's, and also the steely-eyed man who had come in later with the bodyguard. Bellarosa would disappear with these men into his bedroom, and they would emerge ten or fifteen minutes later, their arms around one another, but I couldn't tell who screwed whom in there.

At any given time, there were about a hundred men in the big sitting room, though, as I said, they were coming and going, but I estimated that as of about ten o'clock, two or three hundred people must have shown up. I wonder what the office Christmas party looks like.

Anyway, Bellarosa paid very little attention to me, but he wanted me to stay in the room, I suppose to show me off, or to immerse me in Mafiana, maybe even to impress me with his world. However, he barely introduced me to anyone, and when he did think to introduce me, I didn't get any kisses or hugs, only a few surprisingly limp handshakes. But I wasn't put out by this. In fact, I noticed that these people were not big on introductions in general and barely bothered with them or acknowledged them, even among themselves. I thought that odd, but perhaps it was only my cultural bias; I mean, in my crowd, and with Americans in general, introductions are a big deal, and I even get introduced to people's maids and dogs. But with Bellarosa and his goombahs, I think there was this ingrained sense of secrecy, silence, and conspiracy that precluded a lot of idle chatter, including people's names.

It was sort of an Italians-only party, I guess, but then Jack Weinstein showed up and I was never so happy to see a Jewish lawyer in my life. Weinstein came right up to me and introduced himself. He didn't seem at all professionally jealous, and in fact, he said, "You did a nice job. I never could have sprung him."

I replied, "Look, Mr Weinstein -"

"Jack. I'm Jack. They call you Jack or John?"

Actually they call me Mr Sutter, but I replied, "John is fine. Look, Jack, I don't think I should have any further involvement in this case. I don't do criminal work, and I simply don't know the ropes at Foley Square." He patted my shoulder. "Not to worry, my friend. I'll be in the wings the whole time. You just schmooze the judge and jury. They'll love you." I smiled politely and regarded him a moment. He was a tall, thin man of about fifty with a deep tan, dark eyes, and a nose that could be described as Semitic or Roman; in fact, Weinstein could have passed for a paesano. Giovanni Weinstein.

He informed me, "You shouldn't have said that about Ferragamo. About the aberrant behaviour in court. Crazy people are very sensitive about being called crazy."

"Screw him."

Weinstein smiled at me.

I said, "Anyway, you know, of course, that Frank doesn't think he will make it to trial. He thinks he'll either be… you know… before then, or that Ferragamo will drop it for lack of evidence."

Weinstein looked over both his shoulders and said softly, "That's what this is all about. This gathering. This is public relations. He has to show that he's not afraid, that he has the support of his business associates and that he's still an effective manager." He smiled. "Capisce?"

"Capisco."

Weinstein chuckled. Boy, what a good time we were having. He said, "And I'm not going to bug you about that statement you made to the reporter out on the steps, John, because I put my foot in it a few times myself when I first came to work for this outfit. But you've got to be careful. These people speak their own brand of English. For instance, take the words "pal" and "talk". If someone here says to you, 'Hey, pal, let's go outside for a talk,' don't go. Same with, 'Let's take a walk.' Capisce?"

"Sure. But -"

"I'm just making you aware of this stuff – expressions, nuances, double meanings, and all that. Just be aware. And don't worry about facial expressions or hand gestures. You'll never understand any of that anyway. Just listen closely, watch closely, keep your hands still, your face frozen, and say very little. You're a Wasp. You can do that."

"Right. I think I figured that out already."

"Good. Anyway, I'm glad you were ready to go this morning. You know, usually the State Attorney General and sometimes even the U.S. Attorney will make an arrangement so that they don't have to come and arrest a man like Bellarosa at his home, or on the street or in a public place. You understand, when you have a middle-aged man with money and ties, the prosecutor can work something out with the guy's attorney. A voluntary surrender. But sometimes these bastards get nasty, like when they arrested those Wall Street characters in their own offices and marched them out in cuffs. That was bullshit."