Bellarosa smiled, proudly, I thought. "Yeah. They made me learn there. No bullshit there. You ever read Machiavelli? The Prince?" "Yes, I did."

"I can quote whole pages of it."

And, I thought, you can probably write the sequel to it. I had heard rumours, and now it was confirmed, that boys with certain types of family connections, such as Mr Bellarosa's, were alumni of this school. On a somewhat higher level, there were a number of leaders from certain Latin American countries who were La Salle graduates, including General Samoza, formerly of Nicaragua. This same school had also produced men who had made their marks in politics, law, the military, and the Catholic clergy. An interesting school, I thought, sort of the Catholic version of the Eastern Establishment Wasp prep school. Sort of. I asked, "Didn't White House Chief of Staff John Sununu go there?" "Yeah. I knew the guy. Class of '57. I was '58. Knew Peter O'Malley, too. You know him?"

"Dodgers" president?"

"Yeah. What a place that was. They break your balls there, the good Christian brothers. But maybe not so much anymore. The whole fucking country got soft. But they broke my balls back then."

"I'm sure it did you some good," I said. "Perhaps you'll be rich and famous someday."

He went along with the joke and replied, "Yeah. Maybe if I didn't go there, I would've wound up in jail." He laughed.

I smiled. Certain things about Frank Bellarosa were making sense now, including his nearly intelligent accent, and, I guess, his nickname, the Bishop. A Catholic military school had always struck me as a contradiction in terms, but I suppose on one level there was no contradiction. "So," I asked, "were you a soldier?"

Bellarosa replied, "If you mean an army soldier, then no."

"What other kind of soldier is there?" I asked innocently. He looked at me, and his lips pursed in thought a moment before he replied, "We are all soldiers, Mr Sutter, because life is war."

"Life is conflict," I agreed, "but that's what makes it interesting. War is something else."

"Not the way I handle conflicts."

"Then maybe you should take up conflict as a hobby." He seemed to ponder that, then smiled. "Yeah." He returned to the subject of his alma mater. "I had six years at La Salle, and I got to appreciate military organization, chain of command, and all that. That helped me in my business." "I suppose it would," I agreed. "I was an army officer and I still find myself applying things I learned in the military to my business and my life." "Yeah. So you see what I mean."

"I do." So there I was, having an almost pleasant chat with the head of New York's most powerful crime family, talking about food, kids, and school days. It seemed a relaxed conversation, despite my innuendoes regarding his business, and I admit the man was an okay guy, not in the least slimy, stupid, or thuggish. And if the conversation were being taped and played back to a grand jury or at a cocktail party, there would be a few yawns. But what did I expect him to talk about? Murder and the drug trade?

There was a chance, I thought, that he didn't want anything more than to be a good neighbour. But as a lawyer, I was sceptical, and as a socially prominent member of the community, I was on my guard. No good could come of this, I knew, yet I was reluctant to end the conversation. Yes, Emily, evil is seductive. Looking back on all of this, I can't say I didn't know or wasn't warned. I asked him, "And did the religious part of La Salle's curriculum leave as lasting an impression on you as the military aspect?"

He thought a moment, then replied, "Yeah. I'm scared shitless of hell." I remembered the Virgin at the end of his reflecting pool. I said, "Well, that's a start."

He nodded, then looked around my office, taking in the wood, the hunting prints, the leather, and the brass, probably thinking to himself, "Wasp junk", or words to that effect. He said, "This is an old law firm."

"Yes." I supposed he thought if the furniture was old, the firm was old, but I had underestimated his interest in me, because he added, "I asked around. My lawyer knew the name right away."

"I see." I had the outlandish thought that he was going to make me an offer for the place, and decided that two million would be fair.

"Anyway," he said, "here's the thing. I'm buying a piece of commercial property on Glen Cove Road, and I need a lawyer to represent me at contract and closing." "Are we talking business now?"

"Yeah. Start the clock, Counsellor."

I thought a moment, then said, "You just indicated you have a lawyer."

"Yeah. The guy who knew your firm."

"Then why don't you use him for this deal?"

"He's in Brooklyn."

"Send him the cab fare."

Bellarosa smiled. "Maybe you know him. Jack Weinstein." "Oh." Mr Weinstein is what is known as a mob lawyer, a minor celebrity in late twentieth-century America. "Can't he handle a real estate transaction?" "No. This is one smart Jew, you know? But real estate is not his thing."

"What," I asked sarcastically, "is his thing?"

"A little of this, and a little of that. But not real estate. I want a Long Island guy, like you, for my Long Island business. Somebody who knows the ropes out here with these people." He added, "I think you know all the right people, Mr Sutter."

And, I thought, you, Mr Bellarosa, know all the wrong people. I said, "Surely you have a firm that represents your commercial interests." "Yeah. I got a regular law firm in the city. Bellamy, Schiff and Landers."

"Didn't they handle your closing on Alhambra?"

"Yeah. You checked that out?"

"It's public record. So why don't you use them?"

"I told you. I want a local firm for local business."

I recalled the conversation I had with Lester Remsen regarding the Lauderbach estate, and I said to Bellarosa, "My practice is rather select, Mr Bellarosa, and to be blunt with you, my clients are the type of people who believe that an attorney is known by the company he keeps."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning I could lose clients if I took you on as a client."

He didn't seem offended, merely doubtful that I knew what I was talking about. He said with pointed patience, "Mr Sutter, Bellamy, Schiff and Landers is a very upright firm. You know them?"

"Yes."

"They don't have a problem with my business."

"This is not New York City. We do things differently here."

"Yeah? That's not what I'm finding out."

"Well, you just found out that we do."

"Look, Mr Sutter, you have a Manhattan office. Run my business out of there."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I told you, my clients… no, actually, I personally do not wish to represent you, and you know why."

We both sat in silence a moment, and several things ran through my mind, none of them pleasant. It's generally not a good policy to argue with people who are armed, and I hoped that was the end of it. But Frank Bellarosa was not used to taking no for an answer. And in that respect, he wasn't much different from most American businessmen. He knew what he wanted and he wanted to get to yes, while I wanted to stay at no.

He crossed his legs and pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. Finally he said, "Let me explain the deal, then if you decide no, we shake hands and stay friends."

I didn't recall the exact moment when we became friends, and I was upset to learn that we had. Also, I did not want to hear about the deal, but I couldn't be any more blunt without being insulting. Normally, I'm a lot smoother in these situations, but in some curious way, it was Frank Bellarosa himself who had caused me to change my style. Specifically, I blamed him in part for my fight with Susan, though he didn't know that, of course. And the fight had led to one thing after another, culminating in the new John Sutter. Hooray. And while I could appreciate a man like Frank Bellarosa now, I wasn't going to work for him. In fact, I found it easier to tell him to buzz off. I said, "I can recommend a firm in Glen Cove that would probably handle your business." "Okay. But let me ask your opinion about this deal first. Just neighbourly advice. No formal agreement, no paperwork, and don't bill me." He smiled. "I'm buying the old American Motors showroom on Glen Cove Road. You know it?" "Yes."