PART III

CHAPTER 15

Alhambra. We were late but not fashionably so. Just ten minutes. I was driving Susan's Jaguar and I pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, which were closed. There was one of those post-mounted speakers near my window, and I pushed the call button. No one spoke to me through the speaker, but the gates began slowly swinging open. Technology is eerie. But it has allowed us to live tolerably well without our maids, cooks, charwomen, and other helpful humans. And now it gives us some of the security and convenience once provided by gatekeepers and estate managers.

But Mr Frank Bellarosa had both technology and servants, for as I drove the Jag through the open gates, a large Homo sapiens appeared in my headbeams. I stopped, and the figure moved toward my window, his knuckles dragging along the ground. It was a human male of about thirty, dressed in a dark silk shirt open to his navel, which revealed so much hair that I could see why he couldn't button it. Over his shirt he wore a dark sports jacket, which did not cover his shoulder holster when he leaned into the car.

The man had an unpleasant face with matching expression. He said to me, "Can I help ya?"

"Yeah. Da Suttas ta see da Bellarosas."

He spotted Susan and smiled. "Oh, hello, Mrs Sutta."

"Hello, Anthony."

"Shoulda recognized ya car."

"That's all right."

"Mr Bellarosa's waitin' for ya."

This was all going on a few inches from my face, but as I didn't exist, it didn't matter. Before Susan and Anthony had quite finished with their conversation, I hit the gas and the Jag bounced over the cobblestones. I asked Susan, "Come here often?"

"He's nicer than he looks."

"But is he paper trained?" I proceeded slowly up the drive. I like the sound of Michelins bouncing over cobble. It sounds like you've arrived before you stop the car.

Alhambra's drive is about a quarter-mile long, straight, as I said, and flanked by tall, statuesque Lombardy poplars, all leafed out now and perfectly pruned. Between the poplars were new garden lights that cast a soft amber glow over thousands of newly planted flowers. Ahead, I could see Alhambra's white stucco walls and red tile roofs looming larger. Jaded as I am, I always get a thrill when I drive up to one of the great houses at night. Their entranceways were designed to impress kings and millionaires and to intimidate everyone else. Unfortunately, the Bellarosas did not know about the custom of turning on the lights in all the front rooms when guests were expected, so the house looked dark and foreboding as we approached, except that the front door and the forecourt were lit.

I was not in the best of moods as you may have gathered, so despite the fact that I was impressed so far, I said, "I can see why Bellarosa would buy this place. It looks like Villa di Greaseball."

"Don't use that word."

"He uses it."

"I don't care," she said. "Anyway, Spanish architecture is fine if it's done right. Vanderbilts lived here, John."

"Vanderbilts lived everywhere, Susan." I pulled into the circular forecourt in the middle of which was a new three-tiered marble fountain from which water spouted and cascaded, lit by multicoloured lights. "Early Italian catering hall."

"Cut it out, John."

I parked the car near the fountain, and we got out and walked across the cobblestones toward the front door. I stopped and turned back toward the drive we had just come up. The view out to the road with the line of poplars running down toward the gate was also very imperial. Despite my reservations about the abundance of coloured lights, it was nice to see this great estate coming alive again. "Not bad," I proclaimed. Beyond the gates and across Grace Lane, I could see the DePauws' stately colonial on the hill. I waved. "To whom are you waving?" asked Susan.

"To Mr Mancuso," I replied.

"Who? Oh…" She stayed silent for some time, then asked, "Are you ready?" "I suppose." I turned back toward the house. I could see that the stucco was being repaired and there was scaffolding on the south wing. Several skids of red roofing tile sat in the forecourt, and on the grass were cement pans and wheelbarrows. I asked Susan, "Do you know how Italians learn to walk?" "No, John. Tell me."

"They push wheelbarrows." It didn't sound as funny as when Bellarosa said it.

Susan asked, "How can they push wheelbarrows if they can't walk?" "No, you're not getting it. You see… never mind. Listen, I want you to get a headache at nine-forty-five."

"You're giving me a headache now." She added, "And why do I always have to get a headache? People are beginning to think I have a terminal disease. Why don't you say your haemorrhoids are acting up at nine-forty-five?" "Are we having a tiff?"

"No, you're going to behave."

"Yes, madame."

We walked up the white limestone steps to a massive arched oak door with wrought-iron strap hinges.

Susan indicated one of the stone columns that held up the portico. "Did you know that these are genuine Carthaginian columns?"

"I've heard."

"Incredible," she said.

"Plunder," I replied. "You millionaires plundered the Old World to adorn your houses."

"That is what money is for," Lady Stanhope informed me. "You may recall that every marble fireplace in Stanhope Hall is from a different Italian palace." "Yes, I remember that palace in Venice with the missing mantelpiece." I pulled the bell chain. "Well, time for dessert."

Susan wasn't attending. She was intrigued with the Carthaginian columns and ran her hand over one of them. She said reflectively, "So, two thousand years after Frank Bellarosa's ancestors plundered Carthage, Frank Bellarosa and the plunder reunite a half world away."

"That's very philosophical, Susan. But let's stick to the subject of vegetables and cement tonight."

Susan whispered to me, "If you play your cards right tonight, Counsellor, you may be a consigliere before the evening's done."

"I am not amused," I informed her.

"Well, then, if he pinches my ass, I want you to slug him." "If he pinches my ass, I'll slug him. Your ass is your business, darling." I pinched her behind, and she jumped and giggled as the heavy oak door swung open to reveal don Bellarosa himself. He was smiling. "Benvenuto a nostra casa." "Grazie," Susan replied, smiling back.

"Come in, come in," said Mr Bellarosa in plain English. I shook hands with my host on my way in, and Susan got a kiss on both cheeks, Italian style. This was going to be a long night.

We entered a cavernous colonnaded vestibule, a sort of palm court or atrium as they say now. The floor of the court was red quarry tile, and all around the court were pink marble columns that held up stucco arches. Without gawking, I could see a second tier of columns and arches above the first, from which protruded wrought-iron balconies. All the lighting was indirect and dramatic, and covering the entire court was a dome of glass and iron filigree. More interesting, I thought, was that on both levels of the colonnade, hung amid the flowering plants and the potted palms, were dozens of cages in which were brightly plumed tropical birds, squawking and chirping away. The whole thing seemed to me a cross between a public aviary in Rio de Janeiro and an upscale florist shop in a Florida mall.

Mr Bellarosa, always the subtle and self-effacing gentleman, said, "Hell of a front hall, right?"

"It's beautiful," Susan said breathlessly.

Bellarosa looked at me expectantly.

I inquired, "How do you get the bird shit out of the cages up there?" Susan threw me a mean look, but Frank explained. It had to do with a thirty-foot ladder on wheels that he'd had specially built. Very interesting. Bellarosa looked me over. "You're all dressed up."