My Lord, I almost felt sorry for Stephen Novac. "I understand all that, but I want to know -" "Yeah, you got to understand first who you're dealing with, and understand this – they like to pick on very visible people. People like me and yeah, people like you. Guys whose tax problems are gonna make the news. You know why?" "Yes, Frank. I do taxes for a living. The IRS likes to make the news so they can scare the hell out of a few million other taxpayers who they can't call on in person. That makes people pay their taxes."

They don't give a shit about collecting taxes for the government. You still don't get it. They care about scaring the hell out of people. That's power. And that's jealousy, too. A guy like Novac don't have the balls to get rich like you and me, but he's got the brains to be pissed at not being rich. That's a dangerous man."

I nodded. Bellarosa really did sound like Machiavelli in modern translation. "Take a guy like Ferragamo," Bellarosa continued. "He pretends like it's all justice, democracy, equality, and caring about the poor and the victims of crime and all that shit. Wrong. That ain't what it's about, pal. It's about fucking power. It's jealousy, it's personal, and it's all covered up with nice sounding bullshit. Hey, I could take you to streets in Brooklyn where there's more crime in one block than there is in this whole fucking county. Do you see Ferragamo down there? Do you see Mancuso down there? You see Novac there asking those pimps and drug dealers if they filled out their tax return? And I'll tell you this, Counsellor, it don't matter if you led your whole life like I did, or like you did. When they decide to stick it up your ass with a felony, we're both looking at the same five or ten years, and maybe more. You get time off for good behaviour after you're inside, not before. Capisce? And I'll tell you something else you don't want to hear. When you look at a jury, they look back and size you up, and you try to look innocent and friendly. When I look at a jury, half of them think I fixed the other half, and all of them think they're gonna get blown away if they vote guilty. That is power, pal. I got it; you don't. Nobody fucks with me. And here's another news flash for you: If you think the government ain't after your ass because of what you do, because you're a fancy tax guy beating them at their own game then you still don't get it. Think about it."

I'd already thought about that one and patriotically dismissed it. I said, "You've got this all figured out."

"I got most of it figured out. I'm still working on some of it." He leaned back in his chair and finished the goldfish. "So now you know why. Now you got to talk to Mr Melzer. He'll tell you how."

I let a few seconds pass, then realized I had to ask, "Who is Mr Melzer?" "He was on the other side once. A big shot with the IRS. Now he's in private consulting. You know? And now he's rich from selling the enemy's secrets. He knows the jackasses personally. Understand? I met him too late for me. But maybe he can do the right thing for you."

I thought a moment. There were, indeed, a few renegades out there selling guns to the Indians. But I would never recommend one of them to my clients. From what I knew, they operated in a sort of grey area, trading on personal relationships in the IRS, maybe even paying bribes and blackmailing former co-workers, for all I knew. Their clients never knew, which was part of the deal. No, John Sutter, Mr Straight, would not recommend a renegade IRS man to his clients, even if it was legal. It wasn't ethical.

I must have looked undecided, sceptical, or perhaps disappointed, because Bellarosa said, "Mr Melzer will guarantee you, right up front, that you won't be indicted. No criminal charges, no jail."

"How can he guarantee that?"

"That's his business, my friend. You want to fight this your way, you go ahead. You want to fight it with Melzer, with an up-front guarantee that you'll never see the inside of a Federal pen, then let me know. But you got to act quick before the jackasses get too far along for Melzer to settle things his way." I looked at Bellarosa. He, in effect, was personally guaranteeing me that I wasn't going to jail. I might still be out a third of a million dollars, but I wasn't going to be writing cheques to the IRS in the warden's office. What did I feel? Relief? Gratitude? A closeness to my new pal? You bet I did. "Okay. Melzer."

"Good. He'll get ahold of you." Bellarosa looked around the room again. "Nice place."

"Yes."

"They take Catholics, right? Italians?"

"Yes, they do."

"My sons can come here if I'm a member?"

"Yes."

"How's the food?"

"Not as good as Anna's."

He laughed, then looked at me for a few long seconds. "So you help me join up.

Okay?"

"Well… you need three seconding sponsors. Understand?"

"Yeah. I belong to clubs. You find them. I don't know anybody here." I saw this coming. "I'll tell you, Frank, even if I could do that, you won't get past the membership committee."

"Yeah? Why?"

Why seemed to be the question of the evening. "You know why."

"Tell me."

"Okay, because this is one of the most exclusive and prestigious clubs in America, and they don't want a… how do you describe yourself? I mean for real, Frank?"

He didn't reply, so I helped him. "A Mafia don? Head of an organized crime family? What are you going to put on the application? What did you put on your tax return last year? Gangster?"

Again he made no reply, so I said, "Anyway, this is one institution you can't coerce with threats, money, or political connections. I've got more chance of becoming a Mafia don than you've got of becoming a member of this club." Bellarosa thought about that a moment, and I could see he wasn't pleased with this information, so I gave him more good news. "You're not even welcome here as a guest. And if I take you here again, I'll be playing golf on the public course, and I'll have to do my skeet shooting in the basement of the Italian Rifle Club."

He finished his drink and sucked up some ice cubes, which he crushed with his teeth, sending a shiver down my spine. "Okay," he said finally. "So you do me another favour sometime."

I had no doubt about that. I replied, "If it's legal and possible, I'll do you a favour."

"Good. I just thought of a favour. You represent me with this murder rap. As a favour."

Checkmate. I took a deep breath and nodded.

"Good. I don't pay for favours."

"I don't charge for them."

Bellarosa smiled. "But I'll cover your expenses."

I shrugged. For a terrible moment, I thought Bellarosa was going to extend his hand to me across the table. I had this bizarre vision of a photo in the club newsletter, captioned: Mafia don and prominent attorney make deal at Creek. But he didn't want to shake, thank the Lord, and I changed the subject, saying, "I owe you money for the stable."

"Yeah. What did Dominic tell you?"

I told him Dominic's estimate but added, "It must have gone over that." "These greaseballs work cheap for the first few years. Then they learn a little English, and they see what's going on here, and they start screwing the customers like everybody else." He added, "That's the American dream." Not quite. I said, "Those guys didn't even make a minimum wage." He shrugged. "So what? They ain't gonna learn if you feel sorry for them and give them more. People got to be responsible for their own fuck-ups. Right?" "Yes, but I think you subsidized the job. I think you're trying to get me in your debt."

He didn't reply to that but asked, "You satisfied with the job and the price?"

"Yes."

"End of story."

"Whom do I pay?"

"You pay me. Stop by for coffee one day. Cash, cheque, it don't matter."

"All right."

Bellarosa leaned back, crossed his legs, and regarded me a moment. He said, "Now that you know you're not going to jail, you look happier." I would have been even happier if I knew that Frank Bellarosa was going to jail. What a mess. Bellarosa informed me, "Hey, that picture your wife is doing looks great. She won't let me look over her shoulder, you know. She chases me away, but when she's gone, I lift up the cloth and take a peek. She's a helluva painter." "I'm glad you like the painting."