I drifted with the tide for a while, working on a fresh beer and thinking about this and that. Obviously, what I had done was a very spiteful thing, not to mention a class A felony. But so what? I mean, someone was being very spiteful toward me. Right? I saw Alphonse Ferragamo's hand in this, and Mr Novac's hand, too. And perhaps even Mr Mancuso's hand and possibly Mr Melzer's influence. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself. True, but I was enjoying the fight.

What I didn't enjoy was the loss of my boat, which in some semi-mystical way had become a part of me over the years. The Paumanok had always been my ace in the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That's why they'd taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you.

Of course, if I hadn't been so spiteful and impulsive, I'd have gotten the boat back after I'd come up with the taxes, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the Paumanok was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted the beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay.

Around midnight, after counting a billion stars and wishing on a dozen shooting stars, I stirred myself and sat up.

I finished the last half of a beer, oriented myself, and began rowing for shore. As I pulled on the oars, I asked myself, "What else can go wrong?" But you should never ask that question.

PART VI

CHAPTER 34

"You gotta try the sfogliatelli," said Frank Bellarosa.

Susan took the pastry and put it on her plate beside two other 'gotta try' pastries. Oddly, this woman, who looks like a poster girl for famine relief, packed down an entire 'gotta try' meal without even turning green. Anna Bellarosa was watching her weight, as she announced about six times, and was 'just picking'. She picked her way through enough food to feed the slums of Calcutta for a week. She also picked out two pastries, then put artificial sweetener in her coffee.

Where this was taking place was Giulio's, and it was now mid-September. Actually, it was Friday, September seventeenth, to be exact, and you'll see shortly why the day sticks out in my mind.

As for the great unveiling, I understand everyone loved the painting, and everyone had a good time that night. Terrific. I had a good excuse for missing the art event of the year, of course, if I had wanted an excuse: "Sorry, but I was busy sinking my boat to piss off the Feds." Regarding that, I hadn't heard from the IRS yet, and I doubt they even knew the Paumanok was gone. It didn't mean as much to them as it did to me. Maybe in the end, it was a futile gesture, but I wasn't sorry I'd done it. And if they asked me about it, I'd say, "Yes, I sunk her, just as my ancestors dumped tea into Boston Harbor. Give me liberty or give me death." I'd probably get about a year and a six-figure fine. But I did have a closing date on the East Hampton house, and I'd probably be able to settle my tax delinquency within a few weeks. Then I could get out my scuba gear and remove the tax-seizure signs from the Paumanok. Regarding my marital status, I'd accepted Susan's suggestion and remained in residence. However, we were married in name only, as they used to say when describing a couple who shared the same house and attended social and family functions together, but who no longer engaged in conjugal sex. This may have been all right for our ancestors, but to most modern couples, it's the worst of both worlds.

Anyway, back at Giulio's, the fat lady was still singing, belting them out in Italian, a mixture of sweet melodic songs and sad songs that made the old goombahs weepy, plus a few numbers that must have been pretty raunchy judging by the way she sang them and the reaction of the crowd.

The crowd, incidentally, was slightly different from the lunch group. There were, to be sure, a few suspected mafioso types, but there were also some uptown Manhattanites as well, people who spent their entire urban lives trying to discover new restaurants that nobody knows about yet, except the two hundred people in the place. Well, the uptown crowd was going to have something interesting to report after this meal. Anyway, there were also a lot of greasy young Guidos in the place with their girlfriends, who looked like slim Annas, just dying to get married so they could blow up like stuffed cannelloni. And there was this old geezer with a four-day beard squeezing the whaddayacallit – the concertina – while the fat lady sang. Frank gave the old guy a twenty to play "Santa Lucia", and this must have been on the goombah hit parade because everybody joined in, including Susan, who somehow knew all the words in Italian. Actually, it's a pretty song and I found myself humming it. Well, the place was packed and smelled like garlic and perfume, and everybody was in a very jolly mood.

Susan seemed really fascinated by Giulio's and its denizens. Her infrequent excursions into Manhattan are confined to Midtown, Broadway, and the East Side, and she probably hasn't been down in the old ethnic neighbourhoods since my company gave a party in Chinatown five years ago. But if I had thought she would enjoy something like this, I would have taken her to Little Italy, or Chinatown or Spanish Harlem or any place other than The Creek. But I didn't know. Then again, neither did she.

Well, a few events of note had transpired since the night I'd sunk the Paumanok that may be worth mentioning. Edward and Carolyn had come home from the southern climes. Edward with a deep tan, and Carolyn with a deeper understanding of the Cuban people, and also with a box of Monto Cristo number fours. So the Sutter clan was reunited for about a week before Labor Day, and we had a good time despite the fact that the Paumanok was at the bottom of the bay and the East Hampton house was sold. Incidentally, I hadn't told Susan that I'd sunk the boat and would not have mentioned it, except that when Edward and Carolyn came home, they wanted to go sailing. So I sat everyone down and said, "The government slapped a tax-seizure sign on the boat, and it looked so obscene, I took her into the middle of the bay and sunk her." I added, "I think her mast is still above water, and if it is, you can see seven signal flags that say 'Fuck you'. Well, I hope she's not a hazard to navigation, but if she is, the Coast Guard will take care of it."

There was a minute of stunned silence, then Edward said, "Good for you." Carolyn seconded that. Susan said nothing.

Anyway, we took some day trips, saw a matinee in Manhattan, swam at Fox Point, and even played golf one day at The Creek, though I had the distinct feeling some people were snubbing us. I resigned from the club the next day – not because, as Groucho Marx, a onetime Gold Coast resident, once said, "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member" – but because if I belonged there, then I belonged there. And I didn't, so I don't. Capisce? Anyway, the day after Labor Day, Susan decided to visit her parental units in Hilton Head, leaving Carolyn, Edward, and me to finish out the last days of school vacation by ourselves. It was a nice few days, and we spent them mostly at Stanhope Hall, riding and walking the property. Carolyn got the idea to do a photographic essay of the estate, and that took two days with me supplying the history and the captions for the pictures as best I could. Carolyn is not the sentimental type, but I think she knew that might be one of the last times that such a thing would be possible. One night, Edward, Carolyn, and I camped out in the mansion with sleeping bags, and we had a picnic on the marble floor of the dining room by candlelight.