“Be right there.”

Jenny was saying, “One of the pallbearers today was Mr. Gotti’s lawyer, Carmine Caputo, who we interviewed after the burial.”

Mr. Caputo’s face appeared on the screen, and he took a few questions from a reporter who looked like he was about sixteen years old. Mr. Caputo, old pro that he was, did not answer a single question, but used the opportunity to eulogize his client – family man, father, husband, good neighbor – well, except that one time – good friend – except when he had Paul Castellano whacked – and a generous contributor to many worthwhile causes, including, I hoped, Mr. Caputo’s law firm. I hate it when clients die without paying their bills, as Frank had done to me. But Mr. Caputo seemed sincere in his affection for Mr. Gotti, so he’d been paid.

Jenny came back on the screen, and I thought for sure she was going to make the segue to the last big Mafioso funeral she’d covered – that of don Frank Bellarosa – and mention Mr. Bellarosa’s upper-crust lawyer, John Sutter. This was her opportunity to defend me again and say, “If Carmine Caputo could be at John Gotti’s funeral, why was everyone so fucking bent up that John Sutter went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral? Huh? And John didn’t carry the coffin, for God’s sake.” Then film footage of me would come on the screen, and when the camera returned to Jenny, she’d be wiping her eyes and saying, “John? Are you out there?”

“John!”

“Coming!”

Jenny, however, did not mention any of that, and I was… well, hurt.

I was also sad that she’d gone from network news to this rinky-dink local cable show. Maybe she took to drink after we broke up.

Jenny, who knew her Mafia lore, was saying, “Saint John’s Cemetery is known as the Mafia Valhalla and holds the remains of such underworld luminaries as Lucky Luciano, Carlo Gambino, and Aniello Dellacroce, the Gambino family underboss – and now John Gotti, the boss of bosses…”

I watched her as she looked straight into the camera, as though she were looking at me, and I knew she was thinking about me. I also noticed a wedding ring on her left hand. Oh well.

I turned off the TV and nearly ran into the bedroom.

Susan was at her makeup table and said, “You’re too late.”

I got undressed, fell into bed, and put a pillow under my butt.

She glanced at me and commented, “Well…”

Elizabeth Allard Corbet’s house was a big old rambling colonial located in the hills of Mill Neck, near Oyster Bay.

We parked on the heavily treed street and walked toward the house. The sky was clearing, and it looked as though tomorrow was going to be a good day, at least weather-wise.

A small card on Elizabeth’s door said, Enter, so we did.

It was about 7:30, and the large foyer was already filled with people. As is my custom, I said hello to the first guy I saw and asked, “Where’s the bar?”

He pointed. “Sunroom.”

I took Susan in tow, and we made our way through the living room into a sunroom on the side of the house where two bartenders were helping people deal with their grief.

Drinks in hand – vodka tonics – Susan and I waded into the maelstrom.

I spotted a few people I recognized from the funeral home or the burial service, but mostly the crowd seemed to be made up of couples who were younger than us, probably friends and neighbors of the Corbets – as opposed to friends of the deceased. I didn’t see the Stanhopes and didn’t expect to. Neither did I see Father Hunnings. Maybe they were all still in Father Hunnings’ office discussing me and Susan. These people should get a life.

I didn’t see my mother either. Maybe she was in on the meeting. In fact, maybe they’d asked other people to come and give testimony against me – like Amir Nasim (Mr. Sutter is a bigot), Charlie Frick (He’s a philistine), Judy Remsen (He’s a pervert), Althea Gwynn (He’s a boor), Beryl Carlisle (He’s impotent)… maybe even Samantha (He’s a scoundrel) flew in from London. Possibly, they were now forming a lynch mob. But my mother would tip me off. She loved me, unconditionally.

Susan announced, “There’s no one here whom we know.”

“They’re all plotting against me in Hunnings’ office.”

“I think you need another drink.”

“One drink, then we’re leaving.”

“Fine. But you should speak to Elizabeth if possible.”

We wandered through the living room and into the dining room, where there was a buffet laid out, and I noted a huge liver pâté, oozing fat.

Susan said, “You don’t want that. Have some cut vegetables.”

“Choking hazard.”

We moved into a large family room at the rear of the house, but other than Tom Junior and Betsy, there was no one there that we recognized.

Susan said, “This is a big house for Elizabeth and two kids who don’t live here.”

I thought it best not to mention my guest room, but I did say, “Must be lots of storage space in the basement.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Well… most of that stuff from the gatehouse was brought here.”

She nodded absently, thinking about something else.

Meanwhile, I was thinking that I could have been very comfortable here. I mean, I was happy beyond belief that I was with Susan again, but that was not a done deal – though in her mind it was. But in the days and weeks ahead, she’d have to face some hard realities, and harder choices when Mom and Pop laid it on the line for her.

She would, I was certain, choose me over them and their money, and if the children’s money was also at stake, we’d have a family council, and I would still be the winner over Grandpa and Grandma.

But I wasn’t going to let that happen. And I wouldn’t make a big deal of it; I’d just disappear. Well, first I’d kick William in the nuts. That’s the least I should get out of this.

Susan asked me, “Could you live here?”

“Live… where?”

“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t move from Stanhope Hall and get away from the memories, from Nasim, from… everything there.”

I didn’t reply immediately, then I said, “That is totally your decision.”

“I want you to tell me how you feel.”

Why is it always feel with women? How about, “Tell me what you think”?

“John?”

“I’m not completely in touch with my feelings on that subject. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Elizabeth wants to sell, so let’s think about it.”

That was a step in the right direction away from Stanhope Hall. I agreed, “Let’s see how we feel.”

She nodded and observed, “There are people on the patio. Let’s go outside.”

So we walked through the family room, and stopped to say hello to Tom Junior and Betsy, and we discovered that their father and Laurence had gone back to the city, but the kids were joining them tomorrow for Sunday brunch in SoHo. That’s what I’d be doing if I moved into the city by myself.

I said, “There’s Elizabeth. We’ll say hello, then you need to excuse yourself, so I can speak to her about that letter if I think it’s appro-priate.”

She nodded, and we walked over to Elizabeth, who was standing with a group of people in the center of the large patio.

We all kissed, and Elizabeth introduced us to her friends, one of whom was a younger guy who I immediately sensed was single, horny, and sniffing around our friend and hostess. His name was Mitch, and he looked a little slick to me – trendy clothes, coiffed hair, buffed nails, and a phony smile. Capped teeth, too. I did not approve of Mitch, and I hoped that Elizabeth didn’t either.

Susan said to Elizabeth, “That was a beautiful funeral service and a moving burial rite.”

Elizabeth replied, “Thank you both so much for all you’ve done.”

And so forth.

Then Susan excused herself, and I hesitated, then said to Elizabeth, “This may not be a good time, but I need about five minutes to discuss something that’s come up.”