The Gate House

I had been accosted in the room by a man who I classified as Cro-Magnon and who asked me some questions that made little sense to me. I later learned that this man was Salvatore D’Alessio, brother-in-law to don Bellarosa. Much later, I learned that Mr. D’Alessio, who was the don’s underboss, wanted to be capo di tutti capi, so Frank had to go.

Anyway, Mr. D’Alessio, sitting now a few feet from me, was a big, powerfully built man with thick dyed black hair and thick eyebrows that met in the middle, like you see in the Prehistoric Man dioramas at the Museum of Natural History. He could have been wearing an animal skin, and no one would have commented, but he was in fact wearing baggy black dress pants and a white dress shirt half unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing lots of hair. I didn’t think he’d be carrying a gun to a family di

Anthony asked me, “Did you ever meet my aunt Marie?”

I turned my attention to Aunt Marie, who looked like a thi

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

In fact, I’d met Marie D’Alessio at Frank Bellarosa’s funeral Mass, and she’d sat next to A

Marie didn’t seem to have anything to say to the ex-husband of Susan Sutter, so I turned my attention back to Uncle Sal, and I noticed now that he was giving me an appraising look. We made eye contact, and he said to me, “Long time.”

I guess that meant “Long time no see,” which actually means “It’s been ages, John, since we’ve seen each other.” I replied, “Long time.”

I understood why Uncle Sal wanted to clip his brother-in-law, but I was a

I looked again at Salvatore D’Alessio, who was still looking at me, and I had to wonder about a man who would arrange to have his brother-in-law killed in front of his own wife’s sister.

Regarding the timing of the whack, Frank Bellarosa never had a day in his life when he wasn’t on his guard, and he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest under his tailored suit, so aside from some broken ribs and a severed carotid artery that was not protected by the Kevlar, he’d survived, with a little help from me.

Anthony broke the silence with some good news and a

Uncle Sal stood, and I was struck at how huge this guy was. I mean, even if you shaved off all his hair, he was still pretty big. He said, “Yeah. We’re goin’.”

Aunt Marie also stood, and said to her nephew, “Anthony, take care of your mother.”

“I do.”

“You gotta call her.”

“I do.”

“Have her over more. Not just Sundays, Anthony.”

“My brothers come in from Jersey and see her all the time.”

She ignored this and further advised Anthony, “Since your father died” – she glanced at me for some reason – “since he’s been gone, she’s all alone.”

“She’s got fifty cousins and sisters in Brooklyn.”

“They got their own lives.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Aunt Marie.”

While this was going on, Uncle Sal just stood there, expressionless, but perhaps thinking that his wife was wasting her time talking to a dead man. Well, I didn’t know that, of course, and certainly Uncle Sal had already had ample time and opportunity to put Anthony on the permanently dead list. So maybe they’d worked out some sort of power-sharing arrangement, like, “Anthony, you get the drugs, prostitution, and loan-sharking, and I take the gambling, extortion, and stealing from the docks and airports.” That’s what I would recommend.

Anthony said to his uncle, “Thanks for stopping by.”

Uncle Sal dropped his cigarette on the patio, stepped on it, and said, “Your mother looks good.”

Anthony glanced at the cigarette butt on his nice slate patio, but he didn’t say anything. So maybe he was thinking, “Why bother? He’s dead anyway.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio somehow managed to have each other whacked?

I hope I didn’t say that out loud, and I guess I didn’t because Uncle Sal turned to me and asked, “So, whaddaya up to?”

“Same old shit.”

“Yeah? Like?”

Anthony interrupted this windy conversation and said, “John’s my tax guy.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Sal looked at me for a long time, as if to say, “Sorry my boys missed you at Giulio’s.” Well, maybe I was imagining that.

Aunt Marie a

So I stood there with Anthony and Salvatore in manly silence, then I realized I was supposed to leave them alone. But I didn’t want to go back in the kitchen with the women – only faggots would do that – so I said, “I’m going to take a walk.” I addressed Uncle Sal. “Well, great seeing you again.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a card?”

“What?”

“Ciao.” I walked out toward the pool, well out of earshot and gunshot range. I looked at the shimmering pool, then out to where the German shepherd was glaring at me, which for some reason reminded me of Salvatore D’Alessio.

Salvatore D’Alessio – Sally Da-da to his friends, and Uncle Sal to his nephew – was the real thing. I mean, this guy was not playacting the part of a Mafia boss like so many of these characters did. This was one mean and dangerous man. If I had to put money on who would whack whom first, I’d bet on Uncle Sal being at Anthony’s funeral, and not the other way around.

And yet Anthony had the major motivation – personal vendetta – and also he seemed to have more brains, which I know is not saying too much.

Bottom line here was this: Anthony wanted to kill Uncle Sal; Uncle Sal wanted to kill Anthony; Uncle Sal might still be a

Who said that Sunday family di