"Prime property. Good for something. Maybe a Subaru dealership. Maybe Toyota.

Some Jap dealership or other. Do you think that would be good?" Against my better judgement, I gave him my opinion. "I personally don't buy Japanese and most of the people I know around here don't either." "Is that so? Glad I asked. You see what I mean? You know the territory, and you're honest. Anybody else woulda just seen dollar signs." "Maybe. I'll give you another piece of free advice, Mr Bellarosa – you don't just buy property and decide what kind of car dealership you want to put in there. These dealerships are tightly controlled, with territories and all sorts of other requirements that you may not be able to meet. You must know that." "You're asking me if I know about territories?" He laughed. "Anyway, I can get whatever dealership I want."

"Is that so?"

"That is so."

I should introduce Mr Bellarosa to Lester, but they probably wouldn't like or trust each other. They did, however, have that one thing in common: they wanted you to believe that everyone was doing it, doing it, doing it. I honestly believe that there is not as much corruption in this country as there is the perception of corruption, and it is that perception that a man like Frank Bellarosa uses to demoralize and ultimately corrupt businessmen, lawyers, police, judges, and politicians. But I wasn't buying it.

"So," he continued, "I'm offering six million for the land and the building. You know the property. Is that about right?"

"I'm not sure what the market is at the moment," I said, "but I had the impression you had already struck a deal and just needed an attorney at the closing."

"Well, yes and no. There's always room to negotiate, right? The owners have some better offers, but I made my best offer, and I have to show them that my best offer is their best offer."

"That's a novel approach to business."

"Nah. I do it all the time."

I studied Bellarosa's face, and he smiled at me, then said, "I don't want to screw the guy, but I don't want to get screwed either. So let's say six is fair. So what do you get? A point? That's sixty thousand, Mr Sutter, for a few days' work."

This is what you call a moment of truth. But there had been a lot of them in the last few weeks. Stealing ten million from an old lady was illegal and immoral. Earning sixty thousand dollars legally from a crook was borderline. I said, "I thought we agreed I was giving you free neighbourly advice." "We also agreed you would listen to the deal."

"I listened. Tell me how you can get any car dealership you want." He waved his hand in dismissal of my petty concerns and said, "There is no problem with the real estate end of this deal. It's straight. Trust me on that." "Okay, I trust you." I leaned toward him. "But maybe the source of the money for this deal is not so straight."

He looked at me, and I could see I had pushed his patience a bit too far. He said coolly, "Let the government worry about that."

I couldn't argue with that, because I had made a similar point with Mr Mancuso only yesterday. I stood. "I sincerely appreciate your confidence in me, Mr Bellarosa, but I suggest you use Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove. They will have no problem with the deal or the fee."

Bellarosa stood also and gathered his coat and hat. He said, apropos of nothing, "I've been reading up on the soil here. It's that glacial outwash you said." "Good."

"I put in a grape arbour. Concord table grapes from upstate. They do good here, according to the book." The book is right."

"But I want to do a wine grape. Anybody around here grow wine grapes?" "Mostly out east. But the Banfi Vintners in Old Brookville have been successful with chardonnay. You should talk to them."

"Yeah? You see what I mean?" He tapped his forehead. "You're a smart man, Mr Sutter. I knew that. No Jap cars, chardonnay grapes."

"No charge."

"I'll give you a case of my first wine."

"Thank you, Mr Bellarosa. Just don't sell any wine without tax stamps."

"Sure. What do you think of Saabs?"

"Good choice."

"How about Casa Bianca? White House. Instead of Alhambra."

"Sort of common. Sounds like a pizza place. Work on that."

He smiled. "Give my regards to Mrs Sutter."

"I certainly will. And my best regards to your wife, and I hope she has gotten over her upset."

"Yeah, you know women. You talk to her, okay?"

I opened the door for Mr Bellarosa and we shook hands. He left with two parting words. "See ya."

I closed the door behind him. "Yeah."

I went to the window and watched him walk across Birch Hill Road through the rain.

The village of Locust Valley is not all upper middle class, and there is another side of the tracks. And when I was thirteen, before I went up to St Paul's, I had the opportunity to know some tough guys. The odd thing, as I recall, was that many of them thought I was an okay guy for a twit. One of them, Jimmy Curcio, a killer-in-training if ever there was one, used to shake my hand every opportunity he got. The little monster was irrepressible in his friendliness, and one time, I now remember, he was standing in the schoolyard with a group of his capos and foot soldiers around him, and as I was passing by, he tapped his forehead and said to them, "That's a smart guy."

I watched Frank Bellarosa approach his Cadillac and was not surprised to see a chauffeur – maybe I should say a wheelman or bodyguard – jump out and open the rear door for him. Vanderbilts and Roosevelts may drive their own cars these days, but not don Bellarosa or his kind.

I turned from the window, went back to the fire, and poked at it. Actually, I am a smart guy. And Frank Bellarosa, I was learning, was smarter than I had thought. I suppose I should have known that stupid people don't get that far and live that long in his business.

The real estate deal, I thought, may have been for real, but it was also bait. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. We're both smart guys. But why me?

Well, if you think about it, as he obviously had done, then it made good business sense. I mean, what a team we would make: my social graces, his charisma, my honesty, his dishonesty, my ability to manage money, his ability to steal it, my law degree, his gun.

It was something to think about, wasn't it?

CHAPTER 12

I rattled around the big old house on Birch Hill Road all day, ignoring the ringing phone, watching the rain, and even doing some work. No one else, except the mailman, came by, and I was irrationally annoyed that my employees had actually taken the day off on my made-up holiday. I would have written a nasty memo to the staff, but I can't type.

At about five P.M., the fax machine dinged, and I walked over to it out of idle curiosity. A piece of that horrible paper slithered out, and I read the handwritten note on it:

John,

All is forgiven. Come home for cold dinner and hot sex.

Susan

I looked at the note a moment, then scribbled a reply in disguised handwriting and sent it to my home fax:

Susan

John is out of the office, but I'll give him your message as soon as he returns.

Jeremy

Jeremy Wright is one of the junior partners here. I suppose I was pleased to hear from Susan, though it was not I who needed forgiving. I wasn't the one rolling around in the hay with two college kids, and I wasn't the one who thought Frank Bellarosa was good-looking. Also, I was annoyed that she would put that sort of thing over the fax. But I was happy to see that she had regained her sense of humour, which had been noticeably lacking recently, unless you count the laughing from the hayloft.

As I was about to walk away from the fax machine, it rang again and another message come through:

Jerry,

Join me for dinner, etc?