I thought about all that, and my instincts and my intellect said to go with the old guy – Uncle Sal, who was also my sentimental pick. I inquired, “So, you’re giving even odds?”

“That is correct.”

“What’s the maximum bet?”

“Fifty.”

“John.”

That was Susan, and I motioned for her to be quiet. I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Could you front me fifty on Uncle Sal?”

“Done.”

“I’ll give it to you when I see you.” I added, “Let me know if the odds change.”

“I certainly will do that.”

I would have asked him how I’d know if I won, but that was a silly question. I did ask, however, “Why did hundreds of people line the funeral route of a Mafia don?”

He replied, “Probably thousands, actually. And I don’t have a single answer for that. Maybe curiosity… maybe just the herd instinct…” He added, “Some people thought Gotti was a hero, so maybe that’s something we need to think about.”

I glanced at Susan, then I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Well, we went to the funeral of a lady who lived quietly, died peacefully, and was buried without a lot of fuss. And I’m sure she’s with the angels now.”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “I’m sure she is.” He then said, “Well, I have nothing further. Any questions?”

I looked at Susan, who shook her head, and I said, “Not at this time.”

He said, “Have a happy Father’s Day.”

Actually, I would if William was sick with pneumonia. I replied, “You, too.”

I hit the disconnect button and said to Susan, “I feel good that Felix Mancuso is on top of this.”

She nodded.

“And the FBI, and the county police, and Detective Nastasi.”

Again, she nodded, but she knew I was just trying to make things sound better than they were. We were both disappointed that Anthony Bellarosa hadn’t shown his face and hadn’t given the FBI and NYPD a crack at him. Usually, if the police or the FBI could question a suspect or a person of interest, they could, at the very least, instruct him to keep them informed of his whereabouts. And they could follow him. But Anthony had done a disappearing act, which made everyone nervous.

Mr. Mancuso’s odds of fifty-fifty were either too optimistic, or he was trying to make us feel better. The odds were really in favor of Anthony killing Uncle Sal before Uncle Sal killed Anthony. But that wasn’t a bet I wanted to make.

And then, when Anthony took care of Uncle Sal, he’d turn his attention to the Sutters. That was my bet.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

We spent a few lazy hours of a rainy Saturday afternoon in the upstairs family room, reading and listening to music.

I went downstairs at 4:00 P.M. to ask Sophie to bring us coffee and pastry, then I went into the office to check my e-mail.

There was no reply from my law firm to my Friday night resignation letter, but I knew I’d hear from them Monday.

There was, however, a reply to my letter to Samantha. Bottom line, she was not happy. In fact, she was pissed.

She pointed out, quite correctly, that I’d not called, not written, and had generally left her in the dark until I dropped the bombshell. She also said she was hurt, devastated, and deeply wounded. It was a really well-written letter for an e-mail, and she’s very much a lady and didn’t use words like “shithead,” “asshole,” or even “fuck you.” I mean, that was what she was saying, but she said it in a more genteel way.

Well, I felt awful, and I wished I could have delivered my bad news to her in person or at least by phone – she deserved better than an e-mail – but the situation had gotten away from me, and I’d done the best I could, considering her imminent arrival and what was going on here.

I wasn’t going to respond to her letter now, but I would speak to her by phone, or maybe even in London, and if she really wanted an explanation, I’d give her the whole story. Most likely, however, she never wanted to hear from me again. I wondered if she’d know if I got whacked. I guess she would from my firm, who’d be annoyed that I hadn’t come in to take care of my out-processing.

Anyway, I deleted the letter in case the FBI went through my e-mail posthumously. I wouldn’t want Felix Mancuso to think I’d been a cad.

I went back to the family room, and Sophie brought up coffee and pastry.

Susan said to me, “You’re very quiet.”

I replied, truthfully, “I took care of that business in London.”

“About time,” she said, and went back to her magazine.

At 6:00 P.M., I turned on the TV and found a local news station that was leading off with the John Gotti funeral.

Susan looked up from her magazine and asked, “Do we have to watch that?”

“Why don’t you get ready for Elizabeth’s open house?”

Susan stood and said, “If you hurry, we can keep our six-game winning streak going.”

So, sex or another funeral? I said, “Five minutes.”

She left, and I turned my attention to the television, which showed an aerial view of the Gotti funeral procession, taken earlier in the day from a hovering helicopter.

The female helicopter reporter was saying, “The procession is slowing down in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, a middle-class Queens neighborhood, with John Gotti’s modest home in such contrast to the man himself, who was far from modest.”

Not a bad observation – a little hokey, but point made.

She continued her spontaneous reporting over the sound of the helicopter blades, “John Gotti was a man who, to many, was larger than life. The Teflon Don, who no charges could stick to.”

To whom no charges could stick. This was not BBC.

She continued, “You can see the hundreds of people who’ve come out on this rainy day – friends and neighbors, maybe out of curiosity, maybe to pay their respects to their neighbor…”

Well, at least one neighbor wasn’t there to pay his respects; he was dead.

She went on, returning to the subject of Mr. Gotti as a bon vivant, and said, “He was also called the Dapper Don because of his Italian, handmade thousand-dollar suits.”

A thousand? Did I get taken on that Brioni at two thousand? No. That’s what they cost. Maybe Gotti got the celebrity gangster discount. I should have mentioned Anthony’s name at Brioni’s.

The lady in the helicopter said, “The procession is picking up speed now, and they will be heading to Ozone Park, where John Gotti had his headquarters – the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, but really the headquarters of his criminal empire.”

Really?

The aerial view pulled away to show the long line of vehicles moving through the gray drizzle – the hearse, the twenty or so flower cars piled with floral arrangements, and the twenty or more black stretch limousines, in one of which was Salvatore D’Alessio, though apparently not Anthony Bellarosa.

I looked for Mr. Mancuso’s gray car among the dozens that were following the black limousines, and I actually saw a gray sedan with all its windows open, and arms waving to the crowd. I guess that’s FBI humor.

I heard Susan call, “John!”

I called back, “This is important.”

“You’re going to miss something more important if you don’t get in here.”

“Coming!”

I was about to turn off the TV, but then the scene switched back to the studio, and the news anchor guy said, “Thank you, Sharon, reporting earlier today from our Eye in the Sky helicopter. We’ll have more footage of the John Gotti funeral after we hear this report on the life of John Gotti from our city news reporter, Jenny Alvarez.”

Who?

And then there she was on the screen. My old… fling. She looked great with TV makeup… maybe a little orange… but still very pretty, with a nice big smile.

Jenny said, “Thank you, Scott. Those were amazing shots of the funeral cortège, taken earlier today, as the body of John Gotti was laid to rest at Saint John’s-”

“John Sutter!”