Chuck inquired, “So, do you think this killing will lead to more killings?”

Jenny replied, “It’s quite possible.”

I thought so, too.

Well, it seemed to me that Anthony – formerly Tony – had gotten himself in a pickle – or, worse, a jar of hot pepperoni. I mean, did that idiot – that mamaluca – think that no one was going to connect him to the murder of his uncle Sal? Well, obviously, that’s what he thought he wanted, as his message to the mob that he’d carried out a family vendetta – but I’m sure he hadn’t wanted to fire up the media and the forces of law and order. Unlike his father, Anthony did not think ahead. Anna said it best. “You don’t think, Tony. Your father knew how to think.” Stonato. Moms know.

And speaking of Anna, how was Anthony going to explain to Mom about having Uncle Sal clipped? Well, for one thing, Anna wouldn’t believe the lies that the police and the news media were making up about her son. She hadn’t even believed that her husband, the martyred St. Frank, had been involved with organized crime. And the same denial applied to her brother-in-law, Sal, and so forth.

Of course, Anna knew all this was true, but she could never admit any of this to herself, or she’d lose her jolly disposition, and her sanity. Still, Salvatore D’Alessio’s funeral was going to be a tense family affair, especially if Anthony showed up, and Marie didn’t play the game that the boys had invented long ago.

Jenny was now talking about Anthony Bellarosa, and it seemed to me that she was winging it. In fact, she said, “Very little is known about Frank Bellarosa’s son, and he seems to have kept a low profile since his father’s death. But now, with his uncle’s death, and his alleged, or rumored, involvement-”

I turned off the television and ate Susan’s leftover cake.

Well, I could give Jenny a little more information about Tony, beginning with his name change.

Anyway, I thought, it was looking better for the Sutters. Stupid Anthony had unwittingly – half-wittedly – unleashed a media storm; the Father’s Day Rubout – and that was good for Susan and me. Also the TV coverage was nothing compared to tomorrow morning’s blood-splattered tabloid photos. Hopefully, before the police arrived at Giovanni’s, someone had taken a few pictures of Salvatore D’Alessio lying on the floor with his head in shreds, and those pictures would be worth a lot of money to some lucky people who had taken their cameras to dinner for Father’s Day photos. And sometimes, the NYPD themselves leaked some gory photographs to the press to show the public that La Cosa Nostra was not really an Italian fraternal organization. That would be a good public relations counterpoint to John Gotti as a man of the people. I could imagine some photographs of Marie splattered with her husband’s blood, brains, and skull. I knew how that felt. If nothing else, there’d be some color photos in the tabloids of the post-whack scene – the table, blood on the floor, the vomit. No, no vomit. Blood was okay, but never vomit. Children could see it.

I finished Susan’s cake, then went downstairs and rechecked the doors, windows, and exterior lighting, after which I went upstairs to the bedroom.

Susan was still awake, reading.

I said, “You should get some sleep.”

She didn’t respond. Apparently, she was upset.

I said to her, “Look, there is going to be a lot of TV coverage of this, but I promise you, I won’t look at it again, and we won’t buy any American newspapers in London.”

Again, she didn’t respond.

I said, “It’s good that we’re going to London.”

She nodded, then said, “You see why I went to Hilton Head.”

Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”

She didn’t reply to that.

I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.

As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”

She didn’t respond.

To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café… where was that?”

“On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”

“Oh, well… do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”

“You’re making that up.”

I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but…

“Me, too.”

“And thanks for the yacht.”

“We are going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”

I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”

Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Monday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day.

We were up early to see Edward off, and Susan made him a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs – which I helped him eat – and at 7:30 A.M., a car and driver came for him. I would have driven him to the airport, but he didn’t want to say goodbye at JFK. I remember a time when airports were like train stations or ship piers, and your friends or family walked you to the gate and could practically get on the plane, and could definitely get on the ocean liner to see you off with cocktails. But those days were long gone, and Edward had no memory of that simpler time. It occurred to me that there was a whole generation who accepted this war without end as normal. In fact, it was now normal.

Susan, Edward, and I stood in the forecourt, and I noted that Edward hadn’t forgotten his overnight bag. I asked my son with the genius-level IQ, “Do you have money?”

“Mom gave me money.”

“Good. Your ticket?”

“Got it.”

“Photo ID?”

“Got it.”

“Well, I guess you’re good to go.”

Susan said to him, “Call or e-mail as soon as you get in.”

“Okay.”

I remembered some trips I’d made when I still lived at home, and my send-offs hadn’t been quite as sad or solicitous as the send-offs that Susan and I give to our children. Well, maybe we overdo it as much as my parents underdid it.

Susan said, “We’ll call you from London.”

“Yeah. Good.” He asked, “When are you going to London?”

“Tomorrow.” As we told you last night.

“Great. Have a good trip.”

I reminded him, “Don’t forget, you have a Brioni suit coming in about eight weeks.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Susan reminded him, “Write or e-mail your grandparents – all of them – and tell them how much you enjoyed seeing them.”

“Okay.”

Well, the briefing seemed to be finished, and the driver was waiting, and Edward seemed anxious to get on the road.

We hugged and kissed, and he said to us with a smile, “You look good together.”

That sort of caught me off guard, and I didn’t reply, but Susan said, “Thank you. We’ll see you in L.A. in July, maybe August, then here in August for our sail.” She added, “And maybe a wedding in between.”

He smiled. “Great.”

One more hug and kiss, and Edward was in the car, which moved slowly down the gravel drive. He opened the rear window and waved, and then the car disappeared into the shadows of the tree-lined driveway.

Susan was wiping her eyes with a tissue. It’s always sad to see a loved one off, but it’s much sadder when you don’t know when – or if – you’ll ever see them again.