That was similar to what Mr Mancuso had told me. That assurance must come with government work. They must know something I don't know. I replied, "And I would be happy to sit on the jury." I held the door open for him. He took another step toward the door, then again turned to me. "Perhaps I could use your services one day. I do very well, you understand, but I have no law degree."

"Which is why you do very well, instead of just fairly well."

He chuckled. "You're well-known in the Manhattan IRS office. Did you know that?" I suspected I was, but didn't know for certain. I asked, "Do they throw darts at my picture?"

"Actually, when I worked there, we had a whole wall in the coffee room captioned "Rogues' Gallery."' He smiled, but I was not amused. He added, "Not photos, of course, but names and Social Security numbers. Not of tax cheats, you understand, but of attorneys and CPAs who beat the IRS at their own game. They don't like that. So, you see, I knew you, or of you, before I heard from you." He paused, then said, "So, it is ironic, is it not, that you should find yourself in need of tax assistance from me?"

Irony to me often smells like a put-up job, and that's what he was hinting at.

So I asked him, "Do you believe this case is a personal vendetta against me?"

He let a meaningful second pass before answering, "Who can say for sure? Bureaucrats can be so petty. The point is, even if they did single you out, they did find something, did they not? Even if it is a technicality." A rather expensive technicality. Well, if the only fitting death for a lion tamer is to get eaten by a lion, then the only fitting financial death for a tax man is to get eaten by the IRS.

Mr Melzer returned to his original subject and asked, "I would like to call on you for advice."

This was hardly the moment to tell him to fuck off, so I said, "I'm available for my usual hourly rate."

"Good. And would you be available for more extensive work? For instance, would you consider forming a limited partnership?"

Mamma mia, I was getting more offers than a Twelfth Avenue whore. I replied wryly, "I hardly think that a man who is facing charges of tax fraud would be an asset to you, Mr Melzer."

"You're too modest."

"You're too kind."

"Mr Sutter, I could double your present income in the first year."

"So could I, Mr Melzer, if I chose to. Good evening."

He took the heavy hint, put it around his neck, and left with a hanging head. I felt I needed a shower, but made a drink instead. I loosened my tie and sat in my armchair, wiping my forehead with a handkerchief. These old houses, all stone and with no duct work, are nearly impossible to air-condition properly, and my study was hot in the July heat. I could get a few window air conditioners, I suppose, but that looks tacky, and people around here are more concerned with appearances than comfort. That's why we wear ties and jackets in the heat. Sometimes I think we're crazy. Sometimes I know we are. I sipped on a gin and tonic, my summer drink, made with real Schweppes quinine to ward off malaria, and real Boodles gin to ward off reality. Double your present income. My God, I thought, this used to be a nation that produced useful goods, built railroads and steamships, and subdued a continent. Now we perform silly services, make paper deals, and squander the vast accumulated capital of two hundred years of honest labour. If Melzer could double my income to about $600,000, then Melzer must be good for over a million himself. And what did he do for that million? He fixed tax problems that were in large part created by people like himself. And the bozo probably went to a second-rate state university and squeaked out a degree in accounting. I made myself another drink.

Communism was dead, and American capitalism had a bad cough. So who and what would inherit the earth? Not the meek, as the Reverend Mr Hunnings preached. Not the parasites, such as Melzer, who could survive only while the organism was alive. Not Lester Remsen, who, though he specialized in mining and industrial stocks, wouldn't know a lump of coal from a cow pie. And certainly not me or my children, who had evolved along very narrow lines to be masters of a world that no longer existed.

People like the Stanhopes might survive because their ancestors had stashed away enough acorns to last for a long time. People like Bellarosa might survive if they could make deals with the new wolves in the woods. Evolution, not revolution. That was what America was all about. But you had to evolve fast. I took my gin and tonic and went out on the back terrace. Susan, who had taken to drinking Campari and soda this summer (probably because it was served at Alhambra), joined me outside. She asked, "Is everything all right?" "Yes. But I need to borrow twenty thousand from you."

"I'll have a cheque drawn to you tomorrow."

"Thank you. I'll have it back to you as soon as I unload some stocks. What is your interest rate?"

"The vig is one percent a week, compounded daily, and you got ninety days to pay up the principal or I break your legs." She laughed.

I glanced at her. "Where did you learn that? Next door?"

"No, no. I'm reading a book about the Mafia."

"Why?"

"Why? You read books on local trees, I read books on local wildlife." She added, "Those wiseguys are not nice people."

"No kidding."

"But they make much better interest on their investments than my stupid trustees do."

"So tell Bellarosa you want to capitalize his loan-sharking." She thought a moment, then said, "Somehow, I think Frank is different. He's trying to go a hundred-percent legitimate."

"He told you that?"

"Of course not. Anna did. But in a roundabout way. She doesn't even admit he's head of a Mafia family. I guess, like me, she never saw it in the papers." "Susan," I replied, "Frank Bellarosa is the number-one criminal in New York, perhaps in America. He could not legitimize his business or his life even if he wanted to, and I assure you he does not want to."

She shrugged. "Did you see that article in today's Times?

"Yes. Are you reading the newspapers now?"

"Someone told me to read that."

"I see." The article in question concerned an announcement made by Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, the United States Attorney for New York's Southern District. Mr Ferragamo stated that he was presenting evidence to a federal grand jury that was looking into allegations that Mr Frank Bellarosa, an alleged underworld figure, was involved in the death of a Mr Juan Carranza, a Colombian citizen and a reputed drug dealer. The federal government was involved in the case, Mr Ferragamo stated, because both the victim and the suspect were reputed to be involved in ongoing interstate and international racketeering. Thus, the government was seeking a federal indictment for first-degree murder. I always liked the New York Times' understated style, calling everyone 'Mr,' and inserting lots of 'reputed's and 'alleged's. It all sounded so civilized. The Times should have heard what I heard in Bellarosa's study: fucking Ferragamo, fucking Carranza, fucking Feds, spies, shitheads, and melanzane. I made a mental note to pick up tomorrow's New York Post and Daily News and get the real scoop. Susan said, "Carolyn and Edward will be home tomorrow or the next day. But only for a few weeks, I'm afraid."

"I see." Neither of them had come home directly after school. Carolyn had gone to the summer home of her roommate's parents in Cape Cod, and Edward had remained at St Paul's for some vague reason, probably having to do with a girl. I asked Susan, "Where are they going in a few weeks?" "Carolyn is going to Cuba with a student exchange group to promote world peace and perfect her Spanish. Edward and some other graduating seniors are going to Cocoa Beach where there is a house available to them. I don't think they're going to promote world peace."