I turned my attention back to the bunny's two helpers, who were still eyeing me. I had no doubt that one or both of these men – don Bellarosa's soldiers – had been pursuing me that morning.

Alhambra's main entranceway, unlike Stanhope's, is a straight drive to the main house, which you can see perfectly framed by the wrought-iron gates and pillars. The drive itself is paved with cobbles instead of gravel, and it is lined with stately poplars. On the drive now, stretching all the way to the house, were automobiles mostly of the long, black variety, and it occurred to me that these people with their black cars and black clothes were ready for a funeral at a moment's notice.

Looking at the scene across the street, I suspected that Frank Bellarosa knew how to throw a party. And I had the feeling that he did so in a manner that was in unconscious imitation of a Gatsby party, with everything a guest could want except the host, who watched his party from a distance. In some bizarre way, Bellarosa's ostentatious Easter was a case of history repeating itself, according to the stories that are told of millionaires in the 1920s trying to outdo one another in bad taste. Otto Kahn, for instance, one of the richest men in the country, if not the world, used to hold Easter egg hunts on the six hundred acres surrounding his 125-room mansion in Woodbury. Guests included socialites and millionaires as well as down-and-out actors, writers, musicians, and Ziegfeld girls. To make the hunt interesting, each colourfully painted egg contained a one-thousand-dollar bill. This was a popular event and an original way to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. I know in my heart that I would not have gone to Kahn's estate for the thousand-dollar bills – about a year's salary for some people in the 1920s – but I might have been tempted by the Ziegfeld girls.

Similarly, while sheep's head didn't make my mouth water, curiosity about Frank Bellarosa, his family, and extended 'family' was getting the better of me. While I was weighing the pros and cons of passing through those gates, I noticed that one of the cons, obviously tired of keeping an eye on me, was motioning me to move on. As I am a shareholder in Grace Lane and was not interfering with Mr Bellarosa's party in any way, I rolled down my window and gave the man what is sometimes known as the Italian salute.

The man, apparently overjoyed at my familiarity with Italian customs, returned my salute energetically with both hands.

About this time, a limousine with dark windows came up beside me, then turned left into the gates and stopped. The windows went down, and one of the guards checked the passengers while the big bunny handed out goodies from his basket. I heard a sharp tap on my passenger-side window and turned quickly. A man's face peered through the window, and he was motioning me to roll it down. I hesitated, then reached over and cranked down the window. "Yeah?" I said in my best tough guy voice. "Whaddaya want?" I felt my heart speed up. The man pushed his head through the window and held out one of those badge cases with an ID photo in front of my face, then pushed the face to match through the window. "Special Agent Mancuso," he said. "Federal Bureau of Investigation." "Oh…" I took a deep breath. This was really too much, I thought. Unreal. Right here on Grace Lane. Mafia, six-foot Easter bunnies, errant husbands, and now this guy from the FBI. "What can I do for you?"

"You are John Sutter, correct?"

"If you're the FBI, then I'm John Sutter." I assumed they'd run my licence plate through Albany in the last few minutes, or perhaps months ago when Bellarosa had moved in.

"You probably know why we're here, sir."

A few sarcastic replies passed through my mind, but I answered, "I probably do." "Of course you have every right to park here, and we have no authority to ask you to move."

That's right," I informed him. "This street is private property. My property." "Yes, sir." Mancuso had folded his arms on the windowsill of my Bronco, and his chin was resting on his forearm, his head tilted as though he were an old friend just chatting. He was a man of about fifty, with incredibly large white teeth, like a row of Chiclets. His skin was sallow, and his eyes and cheeks were sunken as if he weren't getting enough to eat. And he had gone bald in a bad way, with a bushy fringe and a tuft of curly hair left on his peak like a circus clown. I added, "I'm not even sure you have a right to be here." Mr Mancuso winced as if I'd offended him, or maybe he smelled the beer nuts and beef jerky. "Well," he said, "I'm a lawyer and you're a lawyer and we could debate that intelligently some other time."

I didn't know why I was being aggressive with the guy. Maybe I was still a little shook up about how he'd rapped on my window, and aggression was my response. Or maybe I was still in my primitive mode. Anyway, I realized I sounded as if I were a mouthpiece for the don. I calmed down a bit and said, "So?"

"Well, you see, we're taking pictures and your vehicle is in our line of sight."

"Pictures of what?"

"You know."

He didn't offer and I didn't ask from where he or they were taking pictures, but it could only have been from the DePauw house, which sits about a hundred yards off Grace Lane on a rise, directly, as I said, across from Alhambra's gates. I found it interesting, but certainly understandable, that the DePauws, who are 'Support your local police state' types, would join the forces of good against the forces of evil. Allen DePauw would, I'm sure, let the Feds set up a machine gun nest and supply the ammunition. Grace Lane was going through some changes. I looked up at the DePauws' big clapboard colonial, then turned toward Alhambra's gate. I supposed that as the cars swung into the drive, the FBI was photographing the licence plates with a telephoto lens and probably even getting nice shots of the guests as they got out of their cars. I realized that I was not actually blocking the line of sight between the DePauws' house and the gates, and I thought there was more to this. I said, "I was about to leave anyway."

"Thank you." Mancuso made no move to disengage himself from my vehicle. He said, "I guess you're stopped here because you're curious."

"Actually, I was invited."

"Were you?" He seemed surprised, then not so surprised. He nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if you ever want to talk to us" – he produced a business card and handed it to me – "give me a call."

"About what?"

"Anything. You going in there?"

"No." I put the card in my pocket with the shotgun shell and cocktail napkin.

Maybe a display case would be better.

"It's okay if you want to go in."

"Thanks, Mr Mancuso."

He flashed his pearly whites. "I mean, we understand your situation. Being neighbours and all."

"You don't know the half of it." I glanced back at Alhambra's gates and saw the two men and the Easter bunny talking amongst themselves and looking at us. On a day when even the rich people that I knew couldn't get help with dinner (unless they ate at the Stardust Diner), don Bellarosa could run out two goons, a bunny, and probably more hired guns and help inside. I turned back to Mancuso, who was also missing Easter with his family, and asked a bit sarcastically, "When can I expect Mr Bellarosa to go away for a while?"

"I can't comment on that, Mr Sutter."

I said, "I am not pleased with this situation, Mr Mancuso."

"Neither are we, sir."

"Well, then, arrest the guy."

"We're gathering evidence, sir."

I felt my anger rising, and poor Mr Mancuso, who represented the forces of official impotence, was going to get a piece of my civic mind. I snapped, "Frank Bellarosa has been a known criminal for nearly three decades, and he lives a better life than you or I, Mr Mancuso, and you are still gathering evidence." "Yes, sir."