He shrugged. "So what? That's between us."

"All right. I 'm going to bed. Can I kick your brother-in-law out of my room?" "Later. We'll wait up for the bulldog editions. I can get the Post and the Daily News hot off the press in about half an hour. I got people waiting for them now." He asked me, "Hey, you call your wife?"

"No. Did you call yours?"

"Yeah, she called before. She's okay. She said to tell you hello. She likes you."

"She's a nice woman. A good wife."

"Yeah, but she drives me nuts with her worrying. Women. Madonn'." He let a second or two pass, then said, "Maybe it's good that we get away from them for a few days. You know? They appreciate you more when you're gone awhile." I wondered if Anna appreciated her husband more after he returned from two years in a federal penitentiary. Maybe she did. Maybe if I got nailed on a perjury rap and went away for five years, Susan would really appreciate me. Maybe not. At about midnight, with about a dozen people left in the suite, two men arrived within a few minutes of each other, each carrying a stack of newspapers. One had the Post, the ink still wet on it, and the other, the Daily News. They threw the papers on the coffee table.

I read the Post headline: GOTCHA, FRANK. The Post is not subtle. Beneath the headline was a full-page photo of Frank Bellarosa being led down a corridor of the Federal Court in cuffs, with Mancuso holding his arm. I learned from the caption that Mr Mancuso's first name was Felix, which explained a lot. It was obvious that despite the prohibition against cameras in the courthouse, Ferragamo had arranged for the daily newspapers to have photo opportunities during the time that Bellarosa was in cuffs. A picture is worth a thousand words, and maybe as many votes when November rolled around. Bellarosa picked up one of the copies of the Post and studied the photo. "I'm taller than Mancuso. You see? Ferragamo likes to have big FBI guys around the guy in cuffs. He don't like Mancuso for a lot of reasons. Plus the guy's short." He laughed.

The remaining men in the room, including me, Frank, Lenny, Vinnie, Sally Da-da and two of his goons, and a few other soldier types each took or shared the newspapers. I picked up a copy of the Daily News, whose headline read: BELLAROSA ON MURDER CHARGE.

Again, there was a full-page photo, this one of Bellarosa holding his cuffed hands up, clenched together like a victorious prizefighter. The caption read:

Frank Bellarosa, reputed boss of New York's largest crime family, taken into custody in Federal Court yesterday morning. I held the newspaper up for Bellarosa. "You'll like this shot."

He took the paper. "Yeah. Good picture. I remember that one."

Vinnie said, "You look good, boss."

Lenny nodded. "Yeah. Nice shots, boss."

Everyone else added their congratulations on a fine photo, cuffs notwithstanding. I wondered if Frank Bellarosa got tired of full-time sycophants.

I did notice that Sally Da-da was not adding his congratulations, but was reading the News. I did not like this man, and he knew it. And he did not like me, and I knew it, so it sort of balanced out. But aside from not liking him, I didn't trust him.

I opened the Daily News to a byline story and saw a small photo of Frank and a man who looked vaguely familiar. The caption read: Bellarosa leaving courtroom with Attorney John Suffer. Ah. I thought he looked familiar. Bellarosa was reading the Post. He said, "Hey, listen to this." He read, "'In a move that surprised and even shocked veteran court observers, Bellarosa showed up at the arraignment with blue-blood lawyer John Sutter of Lattingtown, Long Island.'" Bellarosa looked at me. "You really got blue blood?" "Of course I have."

He laughed and went back to the story and read, "'Sutter is the husband of Susan Stanhope Sutter, heiress daughter of a socially prominent Gold Coast family.'" He looked up at me again. "Does that mean your wife's got blue blood, too?" "Absolutely."

Bellarosa scanned the article and said, "They got a lot of shit here on you, Counsellor. Your law firm, your clubs, all that stuff."

"That's nice."

"Yeah? Where do you think they got all that shit so fast? Your pal Mancuso and scumbag Alphonse. Right? They're really trying to stick it up your ass." And doing a rather nice job of it, I should say. Oh, well, what did I expect? When people like me step out of bounds, the government is right there to pounce, and the press eats it up. There are unwritten rules in this society, too, just like in Bellarosa's society, and if you break the unwritten rules, you won't get your bones broken, but you'll get your life broken.

I looked again at the Daily News article and found my name. Here's what the article did not say: "John Sutter is a good man, an okay husband, and a fairly good father. He served honourably in the U.S. Army, and is active in conservation efforts. He contributes thousands of dollars to charity, is a generous employer, and plays a good game of golf."

Here is what the article did say: "Sutter himself has been under investigation by the IRS for criminal tax fraud."

I thought I'd solved that problem. I guess it was a matter of verb tenses. Has been. Had been. Journalese was interesting. It was an art form. I wondered if I should write a letter to the editor or begin a lawsuit. Probably neither. I poured myself a scotch and soda, and without wishing my fellow revellers good-night, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I saw my suitcase on the luggage rack and opened it. Susan had risen to the occasion and had done a nice job. She had packed my toilet kit, a grey suit, and a blue suit of summer-weight wool. There were matching ties and pocket handkerchiefs and dress shirts. There was also enough underwear for about two weeks, which might have been a subtle hint.

As I unpacked, I saw an envelope with my name on it and opened it. It was a 'Dear John' letter from Susan, which didn't surprise me since my name is John. But I'm being flip. As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I read the letter, and here's what it said:

Dear John,

You looked marvellous on television, though I'm not certain about the green tie with the blue suit. Or was the TV colour off? You handled that bitchy female reporter quite well, I thought. I spent the day with Anna, who was very impressed with you and thanks you. I had to go home through the back way as there were reporters at the gates of both houses. How long will that nonsense last? Lots of messages on our answering machines, though I haven't played any of mine yet. But there was a Fax from your New York office asking you to call. Urgent. I wonder what that's all about? What a break for Frank that you happened to see him on that day. Was I out riding with you? Call me tonight if you have a moment.

Love, Susan

Well, that was vintage Susan Stanhope. Anna Bellarosa probably spent the whole day blubbering and wailing, and Susan spent the day arranging flowers. Well, look, this is the way people like us are. We can be passionate, affectionate, angry, sad, or whatever, but we don't show much of it. I mean, what good does it do? It's self-indulgent, and, contrary to popular opinion, it doesn't make you feel any better.

Still, Susan's note was a bit sang-froid, to use a French expression. On the other hand, I hadn't expected any note at all. I wonder if she wrote to Bellarosa.

I undressed, and as she hadn't packed any pyjamas, I went to bed in my underwear. No, I wasn't going to call her.

I drank my scotch and listened to the muted murmur of Manhattan street sounds eight floors below. I still smelled that horrible fishy sauce and that garlic on my breath. No wonder Italy was the only country in Europe without vampire legends; they turned back at the Alps.

I may have drifted off for a while, but I woke up remembering that I had to tell Jimmy Lip that Fat Paulie wanted him to look at that place on Canal Street. More important, I had to tell Jimmy to lighten up on the chinks. The phone rang and it was Susan, and I spoke to her, but in truth, I think it was a dream.