"No comment."

He thrust his hands into his pockets. "You know, all Italians want to be II Duce, Caesar, the boss. Nobody wants to be under nobody else. That's why Italy is so fucked up, and that's why people like me have people like Anthony around. Because every wop with a gun, a grudge, and fifty cents' worth of ambition wants to knock off the emperor. Capisce?"

"Do you trust Anthony?"

"Nah. I don't trust nobody but family. I don't trust my paesanos. Maybe I can trust you."

"And you sleep well at night?"

"Like a baby. I told you, nobody has an accident in their own house."

"But you carry a gun in your own house."

He nodded. "Yeah." He stayed silent awhile, then said, "I got some problems lately. I take precautions. I've got to get the bugs worked out of the security here."

"But you just said your house is sacrosanct."

"Yeah. But you got your Spanish now, and you got your Jamaicans, your Asians. They got to learn the rules here. They got to learn that when you're in Rome, you do as the Romans do. Who said that? Saint Augustine?" "Saint Ambrose."

He looked at me and our eyes met. Here was a man, I suddenly realized, who had a major problem.

He said, "Let's go inside." He went back into the library and sat in his chair.

He poured himself another grappa as I sat across from him. My eyes fell on the school books on the shelf behind him. I couldn't make out the titles, but I was reasonably certain that most of the great thinkers, philosophers, and theologians of Western culture were up there, and that Frank Bellarosa had absorbed their words into his impressionable young mind. But he had apparently missed the essential message of the words, the message of God, of civilization, and of humanity. Or worse, he understood the message and had consciously chosen a life of evil, just as his son was going to do. How utterly depressing. I said to him, "Well, thanks for the drink." I looked at my watch. He seemed not to hear me and sat back in his chair, sipping his drink, then said, "You probably read in the papers that I killed a guy. A Colombian drug dealer."

This was not your normal Gold Coast brandy-and-cigars talk and I didn't know quite how to respond, but then I said, "Yes, I did. The papers made you a hero." He smiled. "Shows how fucked up we are. I'm a fucking hero. Right? I'm smart enough to know better."

Indeed he was. I was impressed.

He said, "This country is running scared. They want a gunslinger to come in and clean up the fucking mess. Well, I'm not here to do the government's job for them."

I nodded. That was what I had told Mr Mancuso.

Bellarosa added, "Frank Bellarosa works for Frank Bellarosa. Frank Bellarosa takes care of his family and his friends. I don't want nobody I thinking I'm part of the solution. I'm definitely part of the problem. I Don't you ever think otherwise."

"I never did."

"Good. Then we're off on the right foot."

"Where are we going?"

"Who knows?"

I picked up my glass and sipped at the grappa. It didn't taste any better. I said, "Alphonse Ferragamo doesn't think you're a hero." "No. That son of a bitch has a hard-on for me."

"Maybe you embarrass him. I mean as an Italian American." Bellarosa smiled. "You think that's it? Wrong. You got a lot to learn about Italians, my friend. Alphonse Ferragamo has a personal vendetta against me." "Why?"

He thought a moment, then said, "I'll tell ya. I made a fool out of him in court once. Not me personally. My attorney. But that don't make a difference. This was seven, eight years ago. Ferragamo was the U.S. prosecutor on my case. Some bullshit charge that wouldn't hold. My guy, Jack Weinstein, got the jury to laugh at him, and Alphonse's balls shrunk to little nicciole – hazelnuts. I told Weinstein he fucked up. You don't do that to an Italian in public. I knew I'd hear from Ferragamo again. Now the jackass is the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and I got to live with him or move." "I see." And all this time I thought Alphonse Ferragamo was a dedicated public servant. In truth, I didn't completely believe Frank Bellarosa's analysis of Ferragamo's motives. Thinking that I'd heard enough, I said, "I have an early day tomorrow."

Bellarosa ignored this and said, "Ferragamo can't get anything on me, so he tells the papers that I hit this Colombian guy, Juan Carranza." My eyes rolled a bit. I said, "I really can't believe that a U.S. Attorney would frame you."

He smiled at me as though I were simple minded. "Not to frame me, Counsellor.

You really got a lot to learn."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. You see, Ferragamo wants to get the Colombians on my case. Capisce? He wants them to do his dirty work."

I sat up in my chair. "Kill you?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

I found this even harder to believe. I said, "Are you telling me that the U.S.

Attorney is trying to get you murdered?"

"Yeah. You don't believe that? You a Boy Scout or what? You salute the flag every morning? You people got a lot to learn."

I didn't reply.

Bellarosa leaned toward me. "Alphonse Ferragamo wants my ass dead. He don't want my ass in court again. He is a very pissed off paesan'. Capisce? He stewed for eight fucking years waiting for his chance to get even. And if I get hit by the Colombians, Ferragamo will make sure everybody on the street knows he was behind it. Then he's happy and he has his balls back." He looked me in the eye. "Okay?" I shook my head. "Not everyone thinks like you do. Why don't you give the guy credit for just doing his job? He thinks you killed somebody." "Bullshit." He leaned back and twirled his glass.

"I have to go."

"No. Just sit there."

"Excuse me?"

He looked at me and I looked back. I finally saw don Bellarosa for a second or two. But then Frank was sitting there again. It must have been the light. He said, "Let me finish, Counsellor. Okay? You're a smart guy, but you don't have the facts. Hey, I don't care if you think I hit this Colombian guy. But there's two, three, four sides to everything. A smart guy like you sees two sides, maybe three. But I'll show you another side, so when you walk out of here, you'll be a better citizen." He smiled. "Okay?"

I nodded.

"Okay. So when those assholes in Washington made Ferragamo the U.S. Attorney here, they knew what they were doing, for a change. They got it all figured out, those smart guys in the Justice Department. They want the Colombians to hit me, then my friends start hitting the Colombians, and the undertakers are happy, and the Feds are happy. The melanzane are not happy because now they have to go back to cheap wine because the white stuff is cut off while the stiffs are piling up. Understand? This talk make you uncomfortable?"

"No -"

"So the next time you talk to Mancuso out there, you tell him what I just told you. Mancuso is okay for a cop. He's got nothing against me personally, and I got nothing against him. We treat each other with respect. He believes in the law. I respect him for that even if it's stupid. He don't want a shooting war out there on the streets. He's a very responsible man." "You want me to pass on this conversation to Mancuso?" "Sure. Why not? Let him go to Ferragamo and tell him that Bellarosa's onto his game."

"You've been reading too much Machiavelli."

"You think so?"

"Are you suggesting that not only Ferragamo, but the U.S. Attorney General and the Justice Department in Washington are in on a conspiracy to have you murdered and provoke a gang war?"

"Sure. Why do you think Alphonse is still here? It's so fucking obvious what he's up to with this Carranza shit. If Justice don't yank the guy out of here or tell him to cool it, then Justice is in on it. Right?"

"Your logic -'

"Then with the two biggest players blasting away at each other, the Feds take care of the Jamaicans and the other melanzane down there in the islands. Then they go for the Asians. Divide and conquer. Right?"