"The drawing room."

"No shit?"

We walked through the larger adjoining wing, which was a full gymnasium, into the next section of the building, which held an Olympic-size swimming pool, also covered with blue glass. Adjacent to the gym and pool were steam rooms, showers, rubdown rooms, and a solarium. The west wing, more luxurious, contained overnight guest accommodations, including a kitchen and servants' quarters. Bellarosa said very little as I gave him the tour, but at one point he remarked, "These people lived like Roman emperors."

"They gave it their best shot."

We found the east wing, which was a cavernous ballroom where Susan and I had once gone to a Roaring Twenties party. "Madonn'!" said Frank. "Yes," I agreed. I remembered that there was a cocktail lounge near the ballroom, actually a speakeasy, as this place was built during Prohibition, but I couldn't find it. Walking through this building under the ghostly blue-glass roofs, even I, who have lived among Gold Coast ruins all my life, was awed by the size and opulence of this pleasure palace. We had retraced our steps and were back at the mosaic pool now. I said to Bellarosa, "We have to hold a Roman orgy here. You bring the beer."

He laughed. "Yeah. Jesus, these people must've had lots of friends."

"People with lots of money have lots of friends."

"Hey, is this place for sale?"

I knew that was coming. This was the kind of guy who had to know the price of everything and wanted to buy everything he couldn't steal. I replied, "Yes, it is. Are you going to buy all of Grace Lane?"

He laughed again. "I like my privacy. I like land."

"Go to Kansas. This is a million dollars an acre on the water."

"Jesus. Who the hell can afford that?"

Well, Mafia dons. I said, "The Iranians."

"Who?"

"The Iranians are negotiating with the family who own this estate. People named Morrison who live in Paris now. They are filthy rich, but don't want to restore this place. Actually, they're not even American citizens anymore. They are expatriates."

He mulled that over, figuring as many angles as he could, I'm sure, from that skimpy information. We found the broken door and walked out into the sunlight. Bellarosa asked, "What the hell do Iranians want with this place?" "Well, there are a lot of rich Iranian immigrants here on Long Island now, and they want to buy this estate and convert the pleasure palace into a mosque. Maybe the blue roof turned them on."

"A mosque? Like an Arab church?"

"A Muslim mosque. The Iranians are Muslims, but not Arabs."

"Ah, they're all sand niggers."

Why do I bother to explain things to this man?

He jabbed his finger toward me. "You people gonna allow that?"

"Whom do you mean by 'you people'?"

"You know who I mean. You people. You gonna allow that?" "I refer you to the First Amendment to the Constitution – written, incidentally, by my people – as it regards freedom of religion."

"Yeah, but Jesus Christ, did you ever hear those people pray? We had a bunch of Arabs used to meet in a storefront near where I lived. This one clown used to get on the roof every night and wail like a hyena. Jesus, am I gonna have that down the street again?"

"It's a possibility." We were walking, and I turned toward the gazebo. I could see that my companion was unhappy. He grumbled, "The real estate lady never told me about this."

"She didn't tell me about you, either."

He thought about that a moment, trying to determine, I suppose, if that was an ethnic slur, a personal insult, or a reference to the Mafia thing. He grumbled again, "Fucking Iranians…" It was really time for me to give this man a lesson in civics, to remind him what America stood for, and to let him know I didn't like racial epithets. But on further consideration, I realized that would be like trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig. So I said, "You buy it." He nodded. "How much? For the whole place?"

"Well, it's not nearly as much land as Stanhope or Alhambra, but it's waterfront, so I'd say about ten or twelve million for the acreage." "That's a big number."

"It gets bigger. If you get into a bidding war with the Iranians, they'll run you up to fifteen or more."

"I don't bid against other people. You just put me in touch with the people I got to talk to. The owners."

"And you'll make them your best offer, and show them that it's their best offer."

He glanced at me and smiled. "You're learning, Counsellor."

"What would you do with this place?"

"I don't know. Take a swim. I'd let everybody keep using the beach, too. The fucking Arabs wouldn't do that because they got this thing about seeing a little skin. You know? They swim with their fucking sheets on." "I never thought about that." I wondered if this guy could actually buy Stanhope Hall and Fox Point, and still keep Alhambra. Or was he just blowing smoke? Also, it struck me that he had a lot of long-range plans for a man who was facing indictment for murder and who had an impressive list of enemies who wanted him dead. He had balls, I'll give him that.

We walked up the path to the gazebo and entered the big octagonal structure. It was made of wood, but all the paint on the sea side had been weathered off. It was fairly clean inside, probably tidied up by the weird ladies of the Gazebo Society before their luncheon. Someone should teach them how to paint. Bellarosa examined the gazebo. "You got one of these on your place. Yeah, I like it. Nice place to sit and talk. I'll get Dominic here next week." He sat on the bench that ran around the inside of the gazebo. "So, sit, and we'll talk." "I'll stand, you talk, I'll listen."

He produced a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Want one? Real Cuban."

"No, thanks."

He unwrapped his cigar and lit it with a gold lighter. He said, "I asked your kid to ask your daughter to bring me back a box of Monte Cristos." "I would appreciate it if you didn't involve my family in smuggling."

"Hey, if she gets caught, I'll take care of it."

"I'm an attorney. I'll take care of it."

"What's she doing in Cuba?"

"How did you know she was going to Cuba?"

"Your kid told me. He's going to Florida. I gave him some names in Cocoa Beach."

"What sort of names?"

"Names. Friends. People who will take care of him and his friends if they use my name."

"Frank -"

"Hey, what are friends for? But I got no friends in Cuba. Why'd your daughter go to Cuba?"

"To work for world peace."

"Yeah? That's nice. How's it pay? Maybe I'll meet her next time she's in town."

"Maybe. You can pick up your cigars."

"Yeah. Hey, how's that income tax thing coming?"

"Melzer seems to have a handle on it. Thanks."

"No problem. So, no criminal charges, right?"

"That's what he said."

"Good, good. Wouldn't want my lawyer in jail. What's Melzer banging you for?"

"Twenty up front and half of what he saves me."

"That's not bad. If you need some quick cash, you let me know."

"What's the vig?"

He smiled as he drew on his cigar. "For you, prime plus three, same as the fucking bank."

"Thank you, but I've got the funds."

"Your kid said you were selling your summer house to pay taxes."

I didn't reply. It was inconceivable to me that Edward would say that. Bellarosa added, "You don't sell real estate in this market. You buy in this market."

"Thank you." I put my foot on the bench and looked out to sea. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"Oh, yeah. This grand jury thing. They convened last Monday."

"I read that."

"Yeah. Fucking Ferragamo likes to talk to the press. Anyway, they'll indict me for murder in two, three weeks."

"Maybe they won't."

He thought that was funny. "Yeah. Maybe the Pope is Jewish."