Susan and I have six or seven really good sex scenarios for the boat. Sometimes I'm a shipwrecked sailor and Susan pulls me aboard, nearly naked, of course, and nurses me back to health. In the rough-trade department, I'm a pirate who slips aboard at night and finds her in the shower, or undressing for bed. Then there's the stowaway drama in two acts, where I discover her hiding in the hold and administer appropriate corporal punishment as maritime law allows. I personally like the one where I'm a lowly deckhand and Susan is the yacht owner. She orders me around, sunbathes in the nude, and makes me perform demeaning acts, which I won't go into here. The point is, I look forward to sex on the high seas, and so I run, run, run through the treadmill of spring, my arms outstretched toward the Glorious Fourth.

I know this sounds as if I take it pretty easy from the Fourth of July to Labor Day, but I earned it. Also, I use the time to do my own taxes, which I put on extended deadline every year.

I mention this because as I was sitting in my office thinking about my summer house and my taxes, my secretary, Louise, buzzed me. I picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"There is a Mr Novac on the line from the Internal Revenue."

"Tell him to call me in September."

"He says it is most important that he speak to you."

I replied with annoyance, "Well, find out what case or client it refers to, pull the file, and tell him to hold." I was about to hang up with Louise when she said, "I asked him that, Mr Sutter. He won't say. He says he must speak to you personally."

"Oh…" I thought I knew what this was about. But why would the IRS call me about Frank Bellarosa? Then I thought it might be Mr Mancuso of the FBI calling undercover. But that didn't seem right. Frank Bellarosa had introduced a new dimension into my life, so naturally a call such as this took on a Bellarosa colouring, and it was not a pretty rose tint. I said to Louise, "Put him through."

"Yes, sir." I heard a click, then a mealy-mouthed male voice, which I immediately took a disliking to, said, "Mr John Sutter?" "Yes."

"My name is Stephen Novac, a revenue agent with the IRS."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to stop up and discuss some matters with you."

"What matters?"

"Serious matters, Mr Sutter."

"Concerning what and whom?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone."

"Why not?" I asked lightly. "Are your phones tapped by the Taxpayers' Revolt Committee?" I waited for a polite chuckle, but there was none. Not good. I also waited for the word "Sir", but didn't hear that either. I pulled my calendar toward me. "All right, how about next Wednesday at -" "I'll be there in half an hour, Mr Sutter. Please be there and allow an hour for my visit. Thank you."

The phone went dead. "What nerve -" I buzzed Louise. "Clear my calendar until noon. When Mr Novac shows up, keep him waiting fifteen minutes." "Yes, sir."

I stood, walked to the window, and looked down on Wall Street. Money. Power. Prestige. Corporate grandeur and layers of insulation against the world. But, Mr Stephen Novac, of the IRS, had done in fifteen seconds what some people couldn't do in fifteen days or weeks; he had breached all the fortifications and would be sitting in my office on the very same morning he'd called. Incredible. Of course I knew by the tone of the man's voice and by his arrogance that this must be a criminal matter. (If it turned out to be a civil case, I'd throw him out the window.) So the question remained, which criminal was Mr Novac coming to see me about? Bellarosa? One of my clients? But Novac would not be that arrogant if he were looking for my cooperation. Therefore, he was not looking for my cooperation. Therefore… At eleven-fifteen, Mr Stephen Novac was shown into my office. He was one of those people whose telephone voice exactly matched his looks. After the mandatory limp handshake, Mr Novac showed me his credentials which identified him as a special agent, not a revenue agent as he'd said. A special agent, in case you haven't had the opportunity to meet one of these people, is actually with the IRS Criminal Investigation Division. I said to him, "You misrepresented yourself over the telephone."

"How so?"

I told him how so and added, "You're speaking to an attorney, Mr Novac, and you've gotten yourself off on the wrong foot." Of course, the man was royally pissed off and would now take every opportunity to stick it to me. But I had the feeling he was going to do that anyway. "Sit," I commanded. He sat. I remained standing and looked down at him. That's my little power play. Mr Novac was about forty, and anyone still in the IRS after all those years was definitely a career officer, a pro. Sometimes they send kids over, spanking new CPAs or attorneys with the ink still wet on their diplomas, and I chew them up and spit them out before they even open their briefcases. But Stephen Novac looked cool, slightly smug, the way any cop is when he knows he has the full weight of the law in his badge case. He seemed not at all impressed with his surroundings, not intimidated by all the accoutrements of rooted, generational jurisprudence. This was not going to be pleasant. "What can I do for you, Mr Novac?"

He crossed his legs and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He perused it without replying.

I had the urge to throw him out the window, but they'd just send another one. I regarded Novac a moment. He had on an awful grey poplin cotton suit, the sort of thing that prisons issue when they set you free. He wore shoes that actually had gum soles, and the uppers were made of a miracle synthetic that could be safely cleaned with Brillo. His shirt, his tie, socks, watch, even his haircut, were all bargain basement, and I found myself irrationally offended by the man because of the air of sensible frugality about him. Actually, I hate a man who won't splurge on a good suit.

What I really didn't like about Novac, of course, was that he was in my office to ruin my life. At least he could have come better dressed. "Mr Novac," I said, "can I help you find something in that book?" He looked up at me. "Mr Sutter, you bought a house in East Hampton in 1971 for $55,000. Correct?"

Innocuous as that question may seem to you, it was not the question I wanted to hear. I replied, "I bought a house in East Hampton in the early 1970s for about that price."

"All right. You sold it in 1979 for $365,000. Correct?"

"That sounds about right." Best investment I ever made.

"There was, then, a net long-term capital gain on the transaction of $310,000.

Correct?"

"No. There was a gross gain of $310,000. There's a difference between net and gross, Mr Novac. I'm sure they taught you that i school, even if the IRS doesn't know the difference." Easy, Sutter.

He looked at me. "What, then, was your net capital gain?" "You subtract capital improvements and other costs from the gross, and that's what we call the net in the world of private enterprise." "And how much was that, Mr Sutter?"

"I have no idea at this moment."

"Neither do we, Mr Sutter, since you never reported a dollar of it." Touche, Mr Novac. I replied aggressively, "Why should I report it as income? I bought another house in East Hampton for over $400,000. Therefore, the capital gain, whatever it is, was deferred. Would you like me to show you the pertinent section of the tax code?"

"Mr Sutter, you had eighteen months according lo the law at that time to roll over the gain – to purchase a house with the proceeds of the house you sold in order to defer the capital gain. You waited twenty-three months before you bought the house on Berry Lane in East Hampton, in January of 1981. Therefore, a tax event took place, and you should have computed and paid taxes on your capital gain." He added, "You failed to report a significant amount of income." The man was right, of course, which was why he was still sitting there and not being tossed bodily out into the hall. But lest you think I am a crook, there is an explanation. I said to Mr Novac, "My intention was to build a house. The law, you may have heard, allows twenty-four months to roll over the capital gain if you build instead of buy."