Anyway, we spent the rest of the morning in Little Italy, Greenwich Village, and environs, making a few quick stops, sometimes for talk, sometimes for taking provisions aboard the Cadillac. The car soon smelled of cheese and baked goods, and some horrible salted codfish called baccala, which I suppose couldn't be put in the trunk because of the heat. Bellarosa explained to me, "I'm going to send all this stuff home later. This is all stuff Anna likes. You want to send something to your wife?"

It annoyed me that he always referred to Susan as my wife, instead of by her name. What did he call her when they were alone?

"You want to stop for something? Flowers or something?"

"No."

"I'll send these pastries from Ferrara's like it was from you."

"No."

He shrugged.

As we headed up toward Midtown, he said to me, "You called this morning?

Everything's okay at home?"

I replied, "Yes. How's your wife? You call this morning? Everything okay at home?"

"Yeah. I'm just asking you because if you got problems at home, you don't have your mind on business. And because we're friends. Right?" "How was I yesterday in court?"

"You were fine."

"Subject closed."

He shrugged again and looked out the window.

We stopped at the Italian Seamen's Club on West Forty-fourth Street, and Bellarosa went inside by himself. He came out fifteen minutes later with a brown bag and got into the car. Now what do you suppose was in that brown bag? Drugs? Money? Secret messages? No. The bag was filled with small crooked cigars. "These are from Naples," he said. "You can't get them here." He lit one up and I could see why you couldn't. I opened the window.

"You want one?"

"No."

He passed the bag up to Vinnie and Lenny, who took a cigar apiece and lit up. Everyone seemed happy with their little duty-free cigars. Of course, today it was cigars, tomorrow it could be something else that came out of the Seamen's Club. Interesting.

Instead of stopping for a three-hour lunch at an Italian restaurant, we stopped at an Italian sausage cart near Times Square. Bellarosa got out and greeted the vendor, an old man who hugged and kissed Bellarosa and nearly cried. Without asking us what we wanted, Bellarosa got us all hot sausage heros with peppers and onions. I said, "Hold the mayo." We ate outside the double-parked car as we chatted with the old vendor, and Bellarosa gave the man a hunk of goat cheese from Little Italy and three crooked cigars. I think we got the best of that deal.

If a man is known by the company he keeps, then Frank Bellarosa was sort of a populist, mixing with the masses the way the early Caesars had done, letting the common people hug and kiss him, venerate him, and lay hands on him. At the same time, he mixed with the highborn, but if the Plaza was any indication, he seemed to treat the powerful with cool contempt.

The sausage man was not tending his car and, in fact, shooed away a few people so he could better tend to his luncheon guests, dining alfresco in expensive suits in the heat of Times Square with the Cadillac blocking traffic. What a bizarre little scene, I thought.

We wiped our fingers on paper napkins, bid our host buon giorno, and got back into the car. Still chewing on a mouthful of sausage, Bellarosa said to Vinnie, "You tell Freddie to hit these guys up for another fifty cents a pound on the sausage and let them pass it on to their customers." He said to me, "It's a good product and everybody eats it – your Spanish, your melanzane, they love this shit. Where they gonna go for lunch around here? Sardi's? The coffee shops serve shit. So they eat on the street and watch the pussy go by. Right? That's worth another quarter. Right? You like the sandwich? You pay another two bits for it? Sure. So we hit the vendors for another fifty cents a pound and they pass it along. No problem."

"Now that we've all discussed it," I said, "should we take a vote?"

He laughed. "Vote? Yeah, we'll vote. Frank votes yes. End of vote."

"Good meeting," I said.

"Yeah."

Actually, I was impressed with Bellarosa's attention to the smaller outposts of his empire. I suppose he believed that if he watched the price of sausage, the bigger problems would take care of themselves. He was very much a hands-on man, both in his professional life and his personal life, if you know what I mean. We crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn by way of the Williamsburg Bridge. After that, I was lost. Brooklyn is a mystery to me, and I hope it remains so. Unfortunately, I had a guide who pointed out everything to me, the way people do who think you care about their squalid little part of the world. Bellarosa said, "There on the roof of that building is where I got my finger wet for the first time."

I had the impression he wasn't talking about sucking his thumb. I said, "How interesting."

Anyway, we stopped at a beautiful old baroque church covered with black grime.

"This is my church," Bellarosa explained. "Santa Lucia." We got out of the car, went to the rectory, and knocked on the door, which was opened by an old priest, who went through the hugging and kissing routine. Bellarosa and I were shown into a large second-floor commons room where two more elderly priests joined us and we had coffee. These people drink a lot of coffee, in case you hadn't noticed, though it's not so much the caffeine they're after, but the shared experience, sort of a wet version of breaking bread together. And wherever Frank Bellarosa went, of course, coffee was made and served, usually with something sweet.

Anyway, we had coffee, and we chatted about this and that, but not about yesterday's difficulties with the law. The three priests were old-school Italians, naturally, and didn't use their first names, so there was none of that Father Chuck and Father Buzzy nonsense. On the other hand, they all seemed to have difficult first and last names, and with their accents, it sounded as if they were all named Father Chicken Cacciatore. I called them all Father. So the head guy was talking about how the bishop (the real bishop of the diocese) wanted to close up Santa Lucia unless it could become self-sufficient, which seemed unlikely since there were hardly enough Italian Catholics left in the parish to support it. The priest explained delicately that the Hispanic Catholics in the parish, mostly from Central America, thought that ten cents in the collection basket covered the overhead. The priest turned to me and said, "The old people of this parish can't go to another church. They want to be close to their church, they wish to have their funeral Mass here. And of course, we have those former parishioners, such as Mrs Bellarosa, who return to Santa Lucia and who would be heartbroken if we had to close."

Okay, Father, bottom line.

He cleared his throat. "It costs about fifty thousand dollars a year to maintain and to heat the church and rectory, and to put food on the table here." I didn't reach for my wallet or anything, but while the priest was telling me this for the don's benefit, the don had scribbled out a cheque and put it on the coffee table face down.

So, after a few more minutes, we made our farewells and embraces and got our God-bless-yous, and we left.

Out on the street, Bellarosa said to me, "Nobody can shake you down like a Catholic priest. Madonn', they hit me for fifty large. But whaddaya gonna do? Ya know?"

"Just say no."

"No? How ya gonna say no?"

"You shake your head and say, 'No.'"

"Ah, you can't do that. They know you got the money and they do a guilt thing on you." He chuckled, then added, "You know, I was christened at Santa Lucia, my father and mother was christened here, I was married here, Anna had the kids christened here, Frankie got married here, my old man was buried here, my mother -"