"Perhaps crime does pay in this country."

"No, it doesn't, sir. Not in the long run."

"Is thirty years a short run?"

"Well, Mr Sutter, if all honest citizens were as outraged as you seem to be, and assisted – " "No, no, Mr Mancuso. Don't give me that crap. I'm not a peace officer, a judge, or a vigilante. Civilized people may pay taxes to the government as part of the social contract. The government is supposed to get rid of Frank Bellarosa. I'll sit on the jury."

"Yes, sir." He added, "Lawyers can't sit on juries."

"I would if I could."

"Yes, sir."

I've spoken to a few Federal types over the course of my career – IRS agents, FBI men, and such – and when they get into their "Yes, sir, Mr Citizen Taxpayer" mode, it means that communication has ended. I said, "Well, go back to your picture-taking."

"Thank you, sir."

I threw the Bronco into gear. "At least the neighbourhood is safe now."

"It usually is in these situations, Mr Sutter."

"Very ironic," I observed.

"Yes, sir."

I looked Mr Mancuso in the eye and asked, "Do you know what capozella is?" He grinned. "Sure. My grandmother used to try to make me eat it. It's a delicacy. Why?"

"Just checking. Arrivederci."

"Happy Easter." He straightened up and all I could see now was his paunch. I hit the gas and released the clutch, throwing up some gravel as I headed up Grace Lane.

The lane ends in a turnaround in front of an estate called Fox Point, which backs onto the Sound. Fox Point may become a mosque, but more about that later. I drove around the circle and headed south on Grace Lane, passing Alhambra and the spot where Mr Mancuso had stood. He was gone now, as I expected he would be, but I had such a strong sense that the whole day was hallucinatory that I pulled his card from my pocket and stared at it. I recalled retrieving the shotgun cartridge for the same reason, to establish physical evidence of something that had just happened. "Get hold of yourself, John."

I thought of Mr Mancuso for a minute or two. Clown that he seemed, he was no fool. There was something quietly self-assured about him, and I rather liked the idea of an Italian on the case of another Italian. God knows, the establishment in Washington couldn't handle Bellarosa or his kind. The days of the erstwhile Elliot Ness were over, and Italian-American prosecutors and federal agents were having better luck with their felonious compatriots. In a sort of ironically historical twist, I thought, it was like the Roman senate hiring barbarian mercenaries to fight the barbarians. Satisfied with my analysis and nearly comforted by the chance meeting with the odd-looking Mr Mancuso, I headed toward Aunt Cornelia's.

Within ten minutes I was in the village of Locust Valley. Aunt Cornelia's house is a big Victorian on a quiet side street a few blocks from my office. The house has a turret, a huge attic, and a wraparound porch, the sort of home an Aunt Cornelia should live in, and I have fond childhood memories of the place. My aunt's husband, Uncle Arthur, is a retired failure: that is, he spent vast amounts of inherited income on ventures that went nowhere. But he never forgot the most important Wasp dictum: Never touch the principal. And so now, in retirement, the principal, handled by professionals, myself included, has grown and so has his income. I hope he stays out of business. His three sons, my brainless cousins, who have their father's flair for losing money, are made to repeat every morning, "Never touch the principal." They'll be all right, and so will their witless children, as long as they never touch the principal. Aunt Cornelia's street was lined with cars, because it was a street where everyone's aunt, grandmother, and mother lived; a place, to paraphrase Robert Frost, where when you had to go home for a holiday, any home on the block would do.

I found a parking space and walked up to Aunt Cornelia's house. I stood on the porch awhile, took a deep breath, opened the front door, and entered. The house was filled with people, all of them in some way or the other related to me and to each other, I suppose. I'm not good at the extended-family game, and I never know whom I'm supposed to kiss, whose kids belong to whom, or any of that. I'm always putting my foot in my mouth, asking divorced people how their spouses are, inquiring of bankrupt relatives how business is, and on more than one occasion, asking about the health of a parent who has been dead a few years. Susan, who is not related to any of these people except through me, knows everybody's name, their relationship to me, who died, who was born, and who got divorced, as if it were her job to make entries in the family Bible. I almost wished she were at my side now, whispering in my ear, something like, "That's your cousin Barbara, daughter of your aunt Annie and your deceased uncle Bart. Barbara's husband, Carl, left her for a man. Barbara is upset, but is taking it well, though she hates men now." Thus forewarned, I would be forearmed when I greeted Barbara, though there wouldn't be much to talk about except maybe women's tennis or something like that.

Anyway, there they all were, holding glasses in their left hands, gums flapping, and my mind raced ahead to possible pitfalls. I said a few hellos, but managed to avoid any real conversation by moving quickly from room to room through large double doors in the big old house, as if I were on my way to the bathroom. I saw Judy and Lester Remsen, who always put in appearances at my family affairs, but for the life of me I can't find a single relative who knows how Lester is related to us. It may be just a terrible mistake on his part, and he may have realized it at some point, but is afraid to stop coming to these things, thereby admitting he's been at the wrong family functions for thirty years.

As I slipped from room to room and out of conversational traps, I caught glimpses of my mother and father and of Susan, but I avoided them. I was acutely aware that I was underdressed and undergroomed. Even the kids were wearing pressed clothes and leather shoes.

I found the bar, set up in the butler's pantry, and made myself a scotch and soda. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I was surprised when I turned to see my sister, Emily, who I had understood could not make it from Texas. We embraced and kissed. Emily and I are close despite the years and miles that have separated us, and if there is anyone in this world I care about aside from Susan and my children, it is my sister.

I noticed a man standing behind her and assumed it was her new beau. He smiled at me, and Emily introduced us. "John, this is my friend, Gary." I shook hands with Gary, who was a handsome, suntanned, young man, about ten years younger than Emily. He spoke in a Texas drawl. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr Sutter."

"John. I've heard a lot about you." I glanced at Emily and saw she was radiant, younger looking than when I'd last seen her, aglow with a new sexual fire that made her eyes sparkle. I was truly overjoyed for her and she knew it. The three of us chatted for a minute, then Gary excused himself, and Emily and I slipped into the big storage room off the butler's pantry. Emily took my hand. "John, I'm so happy."

"You look it."

She fixed her eyes on mine. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Yes. I'm on the verge of cracking up. It's marvellous." She laughed. "I'm a slut and you look like a bum. Mother and Dad are scandalized."

I smiled in return. "Good." My parents, as I've mentioned, are socially progressive, but when their own family is involved in some sort of iconoclastic behaviour, my parents become keepers of the traditional values. I hesitate to use the word hypocrites.

Emily asked, "Are you and Susan okay?"

"I don't know."

"She told me you were unhappy and she was concerned. I think she wanted me to speak to you."