"Yes, last autumn with Jessica Reid, the realtor, and a few other ladies. We were just snooping around. Jessica had a key, though you didn't need one because half the padlocks were broken."

"I guess none of you bought the place."

"It was really in awful condition. There were squirrels in the house, and birds had built nests all over."

"There are still birds in the house."

"Well, anyway, it was sad, you know, John, because I remember it as a happy, loving home when the Barretts lived here. But now it's coming alive again. It's amazing what a few hundred thousand dollars can do." "Yes, it is, which is nothing. Try a few million. And he's not done yet. Maybe this place will be what brings down the don. Join the home improvement club, Frank. Bottomless pit."

"See, you two have something in common already."

"Yes. He told me that Mrs Bellarosa wants to move the reflecting pool six feet to the left."

"John."

"Sorry." I had another drink. Maybe the sambuca wasn't mellowing me. Maybe it makes people mean. I glanced at my watch. More than five minutes had gone by, and I was beginning to wonder if Bellarosa was pulling his Mussolini routine. Then I noticed a telephone on a small stand across the room. It was an elaborate instrument with several lines, one of which was lit. The don was dialling and dealing.

I looked around the room again and saw now above the sideboard a cheaply framed print. It was Christ, his arms outstretched, with a bright-red heart – a stylized exoskeletal organ – shining from his breast. At the bottom of the print were the words Sacred Heart of Jesus. I drew Susan's attention to the picture. She studied it a moment, then observed, "It looks very Catholic."

"Looks like a pistol target."

"Don't be blasphemous." Susan turned back to me. "You see, they're religious people. A religious person wouldn't be mixed up with -" she lowered her voice to a whisper – "with drugs, prostitution, or any of that." "I never thought of that," I said dryly.

I must admit that, despite my cavalier attitude, I was a bit concerned about meeting Mrs Bellarosa. Not that I'd done anything particularly offensive or threatening – I'd just growled at her on my hands and knees – but that might be hard to explain if she called me out on it. Or worse yet, she might be the hysterical type. I had a mental picture of her screaming and pointing at me. "Frank! Frank! He's the one! He's the one! Kill him!"

That wouldn't get us off on the right foot at all. I realized I shouldn't have come here, but I knew I would probably bump into Mrs Bellarosa eventually. Though if enough time had been allowed to pass, she might forget what I looked like, or I could grow a moustache.

With that thought, an idea came to me. As nonchalantly as I could, I took my reading glasses out of my breast pocket and put them on. I pulled a few bottles toward me and began reading the labels.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Susan looking at me. She asked, "Interesting?"

"Yes. Listen to this. 'Capella is a unique liqueur, produced from the nicciole, which is a native Italian nut. Capella is produced and bottled in Torino – '" "Are you drunk?"

"Not yet." I poured another sambuca for both of us.

"That's enough."

"He said not to be shy."

We drank in silence a few more minutes. The light on the telephone was out now, but then the phone rang once and was picked up somewhere, and a line button stayed lit. I pictured the don in the kitchen, supervising coffee and dessert while he was doing business on the phone, writing names on the wall of people to be killed. "Are you going to keep your glasses on?" I turned back to Susan. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why is it that you never painted this place?" I asked, sort of changing the subject.

She seemed momentarily confused by the sudden shift but replied, "I suppose it was too sad. But I did take a roll of colour slides when I was here with Jessica. Mostly of the palm court. You should have seen what it looked like." "Tell me."

"Well, I'll show you the slides. Why are you wearing -" "Tell me what it looked like when you were here."

She shrugged. "Well… the glass dome was broken, and water had gotten in. There was grass growing on the floor, lichen mushrooms, moss on the walls, and ferns growing out of cracks in the stucco. An incredibly good study of ruin and decay." She added, "I thought I might paint it from the slides." I looked at her. "I do not want you selling them a painting." She replied, "I thought I'd give it to them as our housewarming gift." I shook my head.

"They would appreciate it, John. Italians love art."

"Sure." I cocked my head toward the Sacred Heart of Jesus print on the wall. "Listen, Susan, that is much too extravagant. It could take you months to complete a canvas. And you never gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple." "He commissioned it. This is a different situation. I want to paint Alhambra's palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favour for the stable."

"No, I'm all evened up with him on favours – I gave him free advice. And I'll give you some free advice – don't get involved."

"I don't feel we have repaid the favour, and if I want to -"

"What happened to the Casa Bellarosa sign in mother-of-pearl? Better yet, why don't you bake them a cake? No – maybe that's not a good idea. How about a bushel of horse manure for his garden?"

"Are you finished?"

"No."

But before we could have a fight, Mr Frank Bellarosa burst through the swinging door, rear end first, carrying a big electric coffee urn. "Okay, here's the coffee." He set the urn on the sideboard and plugged it in. "We got espresso, too, if anybody wants." He took the seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of capella. "You try this yet?" he asked me. "No," I replied, "but I know that it's made from the nicciole nut."

"Yeah. Like a hazelnut. How'd you know that?"

I smiled at Susan and answered Bellarosa. "I read the label." "Oh, yeah." He took some roasted coffee beans out of the dish and dropped two into Susan's glass and two into mine. He said, "You either put no beans in, or you put three. Never more and never less."

Damned if I was going to ask him why, but Susan bit. "Why?" she asked. "Tradition," Bellarosa replied. "No – superstition," he admitted with a soft chuckle. "The Italians are very superstitious. The three beans are for good luck."

"That's fascinating," Susan said.

Actually, it was bullshit. I asked Bellarosa, "Are you superstitious?"

He smiled. "I believe in good luck and bad luck. Don't you?"

"No," I replied, "I'm a Christian."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything," I informed him.

"Yeah?" He thought a moment, then said, "Yeah, I know what you're saying. But with the Italians, you got evil omens, evil signs, good omens, three coins in the fountain, three beans in the sambuca, and all that stuff." "That's pagan," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah. But you got to respect it. You just don't know." He looked at me. "You just don't know." He changed the subject. "Anyway, I got no cappuccino. I bought a beautiful machine direct from a restaurant when I was in Naples a few months ago. I had it shipped, but I think it got swiped at Kennedy. The guy in Naples says he sent it, and I believe him, so I asked around Kennedy, and nobody knows nothing. Right? And the Feds complain about organized crime there. You think organized crime steals coffee machines? No. I'll tell you who steals there – the melanzane". He looked at Susan. "Capisce?"

"The eggplants?"

Bellarosa smiled. "Yeah. The eggplants. The blacks. And the Spanish, and the punk airport rent-a-cops. They steal. But whenever there's a problem anyplace, it's organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It's disorganized crime that's screwing up this country. The hopheads and the crazies. Capisce?" He looked at both of us.