"I'll let you get some sleep. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, thank you."

"Sleep well." She left and closed the door behind her.

As I lay there, I had this unsettling feeling that I had done the right thing, but for the wrong reason. I mean, my instinct as a human being was to save a life. But my intellect told me that the world would be well rid of Mr Frank Bellarosa. Especially this part of the world.

But I had saved his life, and I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was the right thing to do. But really, I had done it because I wanted him to suffer, to be humiliated knowing he was the target of his own people, and to face the judgement of society, not the judgement of the scum that had no legal or moral right to end anyone's life, including the life of one of their own. Also, I wanted my piece of him.

But while I was telling myself the truth, I admitted that I still liked the guy. I mean, we had clicked right from the beginning. And if Frank Bellarosa had any conscious thoughts at that moment, he was thinking about what a good pal I was to stop him from bleeding to death. Mamma mia, we should have had pizza delivered.

Well, trying to clear your head and your conscience at the same time is pretty exhausting, so I tuned in to a fantasy about Linda the sketch artist and fell asleep.

CHAPTER 35

The tough son of a bitch survived, of course, thanks mostly to my Eagle Scout and army first-aid skills. The press had made a big deal about my saving Bellarosa's life, and one of those inane inquiring-photographer pieces in a tabloid asked: Would you save the life of a dying Mafia boss? All six respondents said yes, going on about humanity and Christianity and all that. Sally Da-da might have had a slightly different opinion if asked, and I sort of suspected he was pissed off at me.

Anyway, it was mid-October now, Columbus Day to be precise, and perhaps that had something to do with my deciding to pay a call on Mr Frank Bellarosa, who had been discharged from the hospital about two weeks before and was convalescing at Alhambra.

I hadn't seen or spoken to him since our unfortunate dinner at Giulio's, and in fact, I hadn't even sent a card or flowers. Actually, he owed me flowers. But I had followed the news accounts of his medical progress and so forth. Also, Jenny Alvarez and I had been meeting in Manhattan for lunch now and then, and she gave me the latest mob gossip. The latest was this: Unlike with some failed Mafia hits where the intended victim survives and is granted a sort of stay of execution in return for acknowledging that he deserved what he almost got, the contract on Frank the Bishop Bellarosa was still in force. Ms Alvarez and I, incidentally, had progressed in our relationship toward a more spiritual and intellectual plane, which means I wasn't screwing her. Just as well. That really complicates things.

So, on that sunny, mild Columbus Day morning, I walked across the back acreage to Alhambra, where I was stopped near the Virgin Mary by two men wearing blue windbreakers on which were stencilled the letters FBI. They both carried black M-16s. I introduced myself, and they asked for identification, though they seemed to know who I was. I produced my IDs and one of them used a hand-held radio to call someone. I could hear part of the conversation, and it sounded as if the guy on the other end had to go see if Mr Bellarosa was receiving, as they say. I guess he was, because one of the FBI guys said he had to frisk me and he did. He then escorted me toward the house.

I knew, of course, that the guard had changed at Alhambra. Well, two of them were dead for one thing. But Tony and the other characters I had seen floating around all summer had disappeared, either of their own volition or by government decree. Anyway, the Feds were in charge now, and Frank, though safer, was less free, like his birds in their gilded cages. He wasn't actually under arrest; he had apparently switched sides according to the press. Hey, would you blame him? Anyway, the FBI guy with the M-16 said to me as we walked, "You understand that he has dismissed you as his attorney, and anything he says to you is not privileged information."

"I sort of figured that out." Most FBI agents are lawyers, and maybe even this guy, with his government-issued L. L. Bean look-alikes and his rifle, was an attorney. I like to see attorneys do macho things. Good for the profession's image. I asked, "Is his wife home?"

"Not today. She stays with relatives on and off."

"Is Mr Mancuso here?"

"I'm not sure."

We crossed the patio, which was covered with autumn leaves, and passed by the pizza oven, whose door was rusty. We entered the great house through the rear doors where another agent, wearing a suit, took charge and escorted me into the palm court.

The palm court was filled with bouquets and baskets of get-well flowers and smelled like a funeral home. Mamma mia, these people were into cut flowers. I peeked at a few cards, and on the biggest flower arrangement was a card that said: Frank, Welcome home. Feel better. Love, Sal and Marie. No. Could that be Sally Da-da? What was Anna's sister's name? I think it was Marie. What incredible gall.

Anyway, there were a few other federates in the palm court, and one of them ran a metal detector over me while I admired the flowers. The detector went off and the guy said, "Please" empty your pockets, sir." "It went off because I have brass balls," I informed him, but I emptied my pockets just the same. I was wearing a tweed shooting jacket, perhaps not the best choice of attire for the occasion, and sure enough, in the side pocket was a clasp knife, which was missed by the frisk search, and which I use to extract jammed shotgun shells. But I didn't mention that because these guys looked tense enough.

"May I have that, sir?"

I gave him the knife and he ran the detector over me again. While this was going on, I spotted a female nurse walking across the palm court. She was an older woman, not a hanky-panky nurse, and she looked tough, the kind who gives ice-water enemas without lubrication.

So, the gent escorted me up the stairs, but I said, "If he's in his den, I know the way."

He replied, "I have to take you all the way, sir." Good Lord, this place was getting grim.

We walked to the closed door of the den, and the agent knocked once and opened it. I walked in and the agent shut the door behind me.

Bellarosa was sitting in the easy chair where he'd sat that night we had grappa together. He was wearing a blue-striped bathrobe, and bedroom slippers, which somehow made him look older or perhaps just benign. I noticed he needed a shave. Still sitting, he extended his hand toward me and said, "I can't get up easy." I took his hand and we shook. I saw now that his usually tanned skin was sallow, and I noticed a few purplish scars on his face and neck where the buckshot had hit him. "How are you, Frank?"

"Not bad."

"You look like shit."

He laughed. "Yeah. I can't get around much. No exercise. They're still finding fucking pellets in my legs, and my chest feels like I got hit by a truck. I gotta use these canes now." He grabbed a cane by the side of the chair. "Like my grandmother." He lifted the cane. "I whack anybody who walks past." He swung the cane and tapped me playfully on the hip and laughed. "Like my old grandmother. Have a seat."

I sat in the chair opposite him.

"You want some coffee? Filomena's still here. She's the only one left. The rest are fucking Feds. Even the nurses are fucking Feds. You want coffee?" "Sure."

He picked up a walkie-talkie and bellowed, "Coffee!" He put the radio down and smiled. "I keep them all busy."

He really did look like shit, but I didn't sense any brain impairment. In fact, he seemed sharp as ever, just a bit subdued, though that might be a result of painkillers.