Susan said, in a barely audible voice, “Oh my God.” She asked me, “Why didn’t you run?”

“Well, it happened so fast… ten seconds maybe. But… I wasn’t sure why he was hesitating… then I thought, I guess I’m not on his list… but he was looking at me, and the shotgun was still in his hands… and I’m thinking I’m a witness, so maybe I shouldn’t be looking at his face.”

Susan took my arm and said, “Let’s go.”

I remained in the spot where I’d stood ten years before, and continued, “So I decided I didn’t want to wait for the shot – so I gave him the finger, and he smiled, then swung the gun back toward Frank and fired his final shot into Frank’s legs.”

She stayed silent a moment, then asked, “You did what?”

“I gave him the finger. Like this-” I raised my middle finger in a passable Italian salute.

Susan remained silent, then said to me, “That was insane.”

“Well… maybe. But here I am.”

She pulled on my arm and said again, “Let’s go.”

“No… let’s go inside.”

“No, John.”

“Come on. We’re here, it’s raining, and I need a cup of coffee.”

She seemed hesitant, then nodded and said, “All right.”

So we entered Giulio’s Ristorante.

It was exactly as I remembered it, with a high tin ceiling, three paddle fans, a white ceramic tile floor, checkered tablecloths, and cheap prints of sunny Italy on the white plaster walls. The place wasn’t much to look at, but it was spotless, and it was authentic – a throwback to the Italian immigrant culture of the last century. Also, I recalled, the food was authentic Italian – not American Italian – so you had to be careful what you ordered, unless you liked trippa, for instance, which I found out the hard way is diced pig’s stomach, and the sheep’s head – capozella – is no treat either.

Also authentic, I recalled, was the clientele, who were mostly locals from the shrinking Italian neighborhood, as well as recently arrived Italian immigrants, who were looking for real home cooking.

And then there was another sort of clientele – gentlemen who wore expensive suits and pinky rings and who did not smile much. I remembered these men quite clearly from when I’d had lunch here with Frank. And I also recalled that Frank, who’d been a happy guy after I’d sprung him on bail, had put on his Mafioso face as soon as we walked in.

Anyway, it was well after lunch now, but there was a smattering of older men at the tables having coffee, pastry, and conversation. I didn’t see anyone who might be friends of Anthony, or of Sally Da-da, and this was a good thing.

A middle-aged waiter in an apron came over to us, smiled, and said, “Buon giorno.”

Susan replied, “Buon giorno.”

I said, “Good afternoon.” I added, in case he thought we were there to extort money, “Table, please.”

“Yes, yes. You coma sitta here, nice a table by the window.”

That was the table that Frank landed on when he came in through the window. That didn’t bother me, but I had another idea and pointed toward a rear table where the Bellarosas and the Sutters had had their last supper together. I said, “We’ll take that table.”

“You wanna that table?”

Susan explained, “We sat there a long time ago.”

He shrugged, “Okay. Thasa nice a table, too.”

So we sat at the nice a table, and we ordered cappuccino, a bottle of San Pellegrino water, and a plate of mixed pastry.

The waiter took an immediate liking to Susan – they all do – and said to her, “I’m a gonna bringa you some beautiful dolce, and some nice a chocolate for you.”

How about me?

Susan said, “Grazie,” then said something else to him in Italian, and he smiled and replied. I think this is how she got into trouble the last time.

Anyway, we sat there, with our backs to the wall, which is how I’d sat here with Frank at our post-courthouse lunch, and Susan and I held hands, and stared at nothing in particular.

Finally, Susan said, “This is good.”

I replied, “I wasn’t sure.”

It did occur to me that we were in the belly of the beast, so to speak, though I didn’t really expect Anthony Bellarosa to walk through the door. Or the ghost of Frank Bellarosa for that matter. No, I felt we were chasing away the ghosts, and making new memories, rather than burying them, or letting them consume us.

The cappuccino came, and the bottled water, and a huge plate of Italian pastry, along with a dish of chocolates – for Susan – and also a bottle of Sambuca and two liqueur glasses, which were in omaggio – on the house.

We sat there, talking and drinking coffee, and eating too much pastry, and sipping Sambuca, killing the afternoon Italian-style. This was a lot less stressful than shopping, and more companionable than a museum. Good date.

At about four o’clock, Susan said, “We should go so we can get ready for Edward and Carolyn.”

I got the bill and overtipped the waiter, and we left Giulio’s, took a taxi back to our car, and began the drive home.

Not a bad day, so far. I got rid of the Stanhopes and got rid of Frank Bellarosa’s ghost. Anthony next.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

I had decided to surprise Carolyn at the station, and I parked the Taurus near the taxi stand and waited for the 6:05 to pull in.

I’d left the carbine home again, not thinking I’d get into a shoot-out with the Mafia in broad daylight at a crowded commuter station. And yet every time I left the rifle home, I was angry at myself for not having it with me. So, like Susan, I needed to face reality.

The 6:05 blasted its whistle and came to a hissing stop at the station. The rush-hour train disgorged dozens of commuters onto the platform, and I had a flashback to my former life. Could I do this again?

I got out of the car and scanned the passengers, then spotted Carolyn as she made her way toward the waiting taxis. I called out, “Hey, beautiful! Need a lift?”

She was apparently used to this and kept walking, head and eyes straight ahead. Then she stopped in her tracks and turned in my direction.

I waved, and she yelled, “Dad!” and hurried toward me.

We hugged and kissed, and she said, “Dad, it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart.” I said, “You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”

Carolyn ignores compliments, but she did smile and said, “This is so… I am so happy for you.”

“Me, too.” She was carrying only a handbag and a lawyerly briefcase, so I asked her, “Where’s your luggage?”

“Oh, I have a set of clothes at Mom’s.”

“Good.” Exactly how much were they paying these ADAs in Brooklyn? Surely, my socially sensitive daughter wasn’t spending her annual trust fund distribution on clothes and baubles for herself.

Anyway, we got in the car, and I noticed that she was wearing all black, which apparently was the new “in” non-color, suitable for work, after-work cocktails, weddings, and funerals.

Also, incidentally, her hair is black, like my mother’s was before she went gray, and there had never been a hint of Susan’s red hair, so there was hope that Carolyn wasn’t cuckoo.

I drove out of the small parking lot and noticed the expensive cars driven by wives who’d come to pick up their hardworking husbands. There were young children in some of the vehicles – the nanny left early today – and if I looked at these couples, I could see immediately which ones were happy to see each other, and which ones wished they’d taken another train ten or twenty years ago.

I had no doubt that each couple had a story, but I didn’t think any of them could top mine and Susan’s.

I drove through the village and headed toward Stanhope Hall.

Carolyn asked me, “Are you happy, Dad?”

“What man wouldn’t be happy about getting married?”

Carolyn is not into my humor and asked again, “Are you happy?”