This information got his attention, and he said, “Yeah? She works for Joe Hynes?”

The legendary Brooklyn District Attorney is named Charles J. Hynes, but his friends call him Joe. I didn’t think that Mr. Hynes and Mr. Bellarosa were friends, but I was certain they knew each other, professionally. I replied, “She works with the Feds on organized crime murders,” which was not true – but how could I resist saying that?

Anthony thought about this awhile, then looked at me and said, “I never heard of her.”

I replied, innocently, “Why would you?”

“I mean… yeah. Right.” He observed, “There’s not much money in that.”

“It’s not about the money.”

He laughed. “Yeah? I guess if you already have money, then nothing is about the money.”

“You have money. Is that how you think?”

He looked at me, then replied, “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s about the power.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He lit another cigarette and looked out over his five acres and the adjoining properties, and said to me, “This all belonged to my father.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “You’re going to get me compensated for this.”

I was tired of this subject, so again, I didn’t reply. Also, it was now time to tell him that Susan and I were back together, and that I was not going to work for him. I began by asking him, “Why did you tell your uncle that I was doing tax work for you?”

“Because you are.”

“Anthony, we didn’t shake hands on that.”

“You having second thoughts?”

“I’m past second thoughts.”

“You trying to shake me down for more money?”

“The money is fine – the job sucks.”

“How do you know until you try?”

I ignored the question, and asked him again, “Why did you tell your uncle I was working for you?”

He replied, “He thinks you have some power. Some connections. And that’s good for me.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because he’s stupid.”

“I see.” The king hires a sorcerer who has no magical powers, but everyone thinks he does, which is the same thing as far as the king and his enemies are concerned. Maybe I should ask for more money. Or, at least a bulletproof vest in case Sally Da-da wanted me whacked for working for Anthony.

Anthony further informed me, “When you work for me, you don’t need to have anything to do with my uncle.”

“That’s a disappointment.”

Anthony got the sarcasm and chuckled.

I raised a new issue, known as a strawdog, and said, “With my daughter working for the Brooklyn DA, you might not want me working for you.”

“You’re not going to be involved with anything that ever has to do with what your daughter does.”

I had this funny thought of Carolyn working on the case of TheState v. John Sutter. “Sorry, Dad. It’s business, not personal.” I said to Anthony, “Maybe not, but it could be embarrassing to my daughter if the press ever made the connection between me, you, and her.”

“Why?”

“Anthony, you may be shocked to hear this, but some people think you are involved in organized crime.”

He didn’t seem shocked to hear that, and neither did he seem annoyed that I’d brought it up. He said to me, “John, I have five legitimate companies that I own or run. One of them, Bell Security Service, is landing big contracts all over since 9/11. That’s where the money comes from.” He leaned toward me and said, “That’s all you got to know, and that’s all there is to know.” He sat back and said, “I can’t help what my family name is. And if some asshole in the newspaper says anything about me, I’ll sue his ass off.”

This sounded so convincing that I was ready to send a contribution to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League. But before I did that, I should speak to Felix Mancuso about Anthony Bellarosa.

Anthony reached into his pocket and said, “You want a card? Here’s my card.”

I took it and saw it was a business card that said, “Bell Enterprises, Inc.,” and there was an address in the Rego Park section of Queens, and a 718 area code phone number, which is also the borough of Queens.

Anthony said, “See? I’m a legitimate businessman.”

“I see that. The proof is right here.”

He didn’t think that was too funny, but he said, “I wrote my cell and home number on the back.” He added, “Keep that to yourself.”

There was little more to say on this subject, and dinner still hadn’t been announced, so I began, “Anthony…” I have some good news and some bad news. “I want you to know that-”

Kelly Ann ran out of the house and announced, “Dinner in ten minutes-” Then she saw the cigarette in the ashtray and shouted, “Daddy! You’re smoking! You’re going to die!”

Personally, I didn’t think Daddy was going to live long enough to die from smoking, but I didn’t share that with Kelly Ann.

Anthony’s response to being busted was to throw me under the bus by saying, “Mr. Sutter smokes, sweetheart. That’s not Daddy’s cigarette. Right, John?”

“Right.” I reached over and took the cigarette, but Kelly Ann was no dummy and shouted, “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!” Then she turned and ran into the house, and I could hear her shouting, “Mommy! Daddy is smoking!”

Anthony took the cigarette from me, drew on it, then snuffed it out and explained, “Those fucking teachers. They tell them that drugs, alcohol, and smoking are the same thing. They’re fucking up the kids’ heads.”

I didn’t respond, but I did think about poor Anthony, surrounded by controlling, ball-busting females. His mother, his aunt, his wife, his daughter, and maybe even his mistress. It was a wonder he hadn’t turned gay. More importantly, he seemed to have little control over his domestic life, unlike his father who was the undisputed padrone of Alhambra. Plus, Anthony didn’t have the testicoli to tell his six-year-old daughter to sta’ zitto. Well, that’s my observation, and about half of my Italian. My other thought was that maybe he was a lightweight, and I shouldn’t worry too much about Susan.

I stood and said, “I’d like to use your phone.”

“Sure.” Anthony walked me toward another set of double doors at the far end of the house and advised me, “You got to get a cell phone.”

“I’ll leave a quarter next to the phone.”

“You’ve been gone too long. Leave a buck.” He opened one of the doors and said, “That’s my den. You can find your way to the dining room.”

I entered the dark, air-conditioned room, and he closed the door behind me.

Anthony’s den was very masculine – mahogany, brass, leather, a wet bar, and a big television – and I guessed he took refuge in here whenever the estrogen levels got too high in the rest of the house.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I spotted his father’s collection of books from La Salle Military Academy. Frank, as I said, was a big fan of Machiavelli, but he also read St. Augustine and St. Ambrose so he could argue theology with priests. I wondered where he was now, and whom he was arguing with.

Anthony, on the other hand, favored the pagans, and I saw shelves lined with books about the Roman Empire, and I knew that Anthony wasn’t the first Mafia don to be impressed with how the Romans ran things, and how they settled their problems by whacking entire nations. Unfortunately, people like Anthony become educated beyond their intelligence, and they become more dangerous than, say, Uncle Sal.

Anyway, I found the phone on his desk and dialed Elizabeth’s cell phone. As the phone rang, I had two thoughts: One was that there was nothing in or on this desk that Anthony wouldn’t want me, his wife, or the FBI to see; the other was that his phone was probably tapped by one or more law enforcement agencies, or maybe even by Anthony’s business competitors, and perhaps by Anthony himself so he could check up on Megan. But now, with cell phones, the taps on landline phones would not be so interesting, so maybe no one was bothering with a phone tap. Nevertheless, I’d watch what I said.