Sally Roosevelt was nee Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I'm certain that nearly all of Grace Lane's residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it. At about six P.M., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts. Jim said unnecessarily, "I think someone is looking for you." I excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court. "Hello, Mr Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?"

"You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?" No, I didn't actually say that. I said, "That's all right."

He extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, "I don't play tennis." "Neither do I," I replied.

He laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humour, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.

Bellarosa was dressed in grey slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not tres chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewellery, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.

"It's a nice day," said Mr Bellarosa with genuine delight. I could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I'll bet Mrs Bellarosa hadn't spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. "Unusually warm for this time of year," I agreed.

"Some place you got here," he said.

"Thank you," I replied.

"You been here long?"

"Three hundred years."

"What's that?"

"I mean my family. But my wife's family built this place in 1906."

"No kidding?"

"You can look it up."

"Yeah." He looked around. "Some place."

I regarded Mr Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, grey at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I'm six feet, so he was about average height. I'd say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere – court records, for instance.

He had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn't think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women find him attractive. Frank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. "Your guy – what's his name…?"

"George."

"Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn't interrupt your game."

Mr Bellarosa's tone told me he wasn't happy with George. I replied, "That's all right." George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbour. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr Bellarosa. I asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say hello."

"That's good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you."

"Oh, yeah? Why?"

"Well… that's the way it's done."

"Yeah? No one's stopped by yet."

"Now that's odd. Perhaps no one is sure you're there." This conversation was getting weird, so I said, "Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown."

"Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on." He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed. Bellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George's body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. "Here. I bought too much. You really don't have a vegetable garden?" "No." I looked at the plastic tray. "I guess I do now." He smiled. "Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don't know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?"

"Well… slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash -" "What?"

"Glacial… silty, pebbly in places – "

"All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables.

You'll thank me in August."

"I thank you in April."

"Yeah. Put that down. Not on the car."

I put the tray down on the ground.

Bellarosa pulled a clear plastic bag from the trunk, inside of which was a mass of purplish leaves.

"Here," he said. "This is radicchio. You know? Like lettuce."

I took the bag and examined the ragged leaves with polite interest. "Very nice."

"I grew it."

"You must have warmer weather over there."

Bellarosa laughed. "No, I grew it inside. You know, my place has this room – like a greenhouse… the real estate lady said it…"

"A conservatory."

"Yeah. Like a greenhouse, except it's part of the house. So I got that fixed up first thing in January. Every pane was broken, and the gas heater was gone. Cost me twenty thousand bucks, but I'm getting onions and lettuce already." "Very expensive onions and lettuce," I observed.

"Yeah. But what the hell."

I should tell you that Bellarosa's accent was definitely not Locust Valley, but neither was it pure Brooklyn. Accents being important around here, I've developed an ear for them, as have most people I know. I can usually tell which of the city's five boroughs a person is from, or which of the surrounding surburban counties. I can sometimes tell which prep school a person has gone to, or if he's gone to Yale as I have. Frank Bellarosa did not go to Yale, but occasionally there was something odd, almost prep school, in his accent if not his choice of words. But mostly I could hear the streets of Brooklyn in his voice. Against my better judgement, I asked, "Where did you live before Lattingtown?"

"Where? Oh, Williamsburg." He looked at me. "That's in Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn?"

"Not very well."

"Great place. Used to be a great place. Too many… foreigners now. I grew up in Williamsburg. My whole family is from there. My grandfather lived on Havemeyer Street when he came over."

I assumed Mr Bellarosa's grandfather came over from a foreign country, undoubtedly Italy, and I'm sure the old Germans and Irish of Williamsburg did not welcome him with hugs and schnitzels, this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europeans only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding of immigrants had it a little rougher; they had to buy or rent. I didn't think Mr Bellarosa was interested in any of these ironies, so I said, "Well, I do hope you find Long Island to your liking." "Yeah. I know Long Island. I went to boarding school out here." He didn't offer any more, so I didn't press it, though I wondered what boarding school Frank Bellarosa could possibly have attended. I thought that might be his way of saying reform school. I said, "Thanks again for the lettuce." "Eat it quick. Just picked. A little oil and vinegar."