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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 16 из 490” I asked him, “What can I do for you?”
He seemed a little put off, then asked, “Can I come in? Oh…” He seemed suddenly to have thought of the only logical explanation for my slow response to the doorbell and my not being thrilled to see him, and he asked, “You got somebody in there?”
A nod and a wink would have sent him on his way, but I didn’t reply.
“Mr. Sutter?”
Well, you’re not supposed to invite a vampire to cross your threshold, and I think the same rule applies for sons of dead Mafia dons. But for reasons that are too complex and too stupid to go into, I said, “Come in.”
I stepped aside, and Anthony Bellarosa entered the gatehouse and my life. I closed the door and led young Anthony into the small sitting room.
I indicated a rocking chair – Ethel’s chair – near the ash-heaped fireplace, and I took George’s threadbare wingback chair facing my guest. I did not offer him a drink.
Anthony did a quick eye-recon of the room, noting, I’m sure, the shabby furnishings, the faded wallpaper, and the worn carpet.
Also, he may have been evaluating some personal security issues. His father used to do this, more out of habit than paranoia. Frank Bellarosa also had an unconscious habit of checking out every female in the room while he was checking to see if anyone might want to kill him. I admire people who can multitask.
In the case of Susan Sutter, however, Frank had missed some crucial clues and signs of trouble. If I could speculate about those last few minutes of Frank Bellarosa’s life, I’d guess that the blood in Frank’s big brain had flowed south into his little brain at a critical moment. It happens. And when it does, the rest of your blood can wind up splattered around the room, as happened to poor Frank.
Anthony said, “Nice little place here.”
“Thank you.” In fact, these old estate gatehouses looked quaint and charming on the outside, but most of them were claustrophobic. I don’t know how I managed to share this cottage with Ethel, even for the short time I was here. I recall going out a lot.
Anthony asked me, “You lived here for a while. Right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re back from London. Right?”
I wondered how he knew that.
“But this Arab who owns the mansion owns this place, too. Right?”
“Right.” I further informed him, “He’s an Iranian.”
“Right. A fucking Arab.”
“The Iranians are not Arabs.”
“What are they?”
“Persians.”
This seemed to confuse him, so he changed the subject and asked, “So, you’re… what? Buying it? Renting it?”
“I’m a houseguest of Mrs. Allard.”
“Yeah? So, how’s the old lady?”
“Dying.”
“Right. No change there.”
Obviously, he’d been making inquiries.
He seemed a little put off, then asked, “Can I come in? Oh…” He seemed suddenly to have thought of the only logical explanation for my slow response to the doorbell and my not being thrilled to see him, and he asked, “You got somebody in there?”
A nod and a wink would have sent him on his way, but I didn’t reply.
“Mr. Sutter?”
Well, you’re not supposed to invite a vampire to cross your threshold, and I think the same rule applies for sons of dead Mafia dons. But for reasons that are too complex and too stupid to go into, I said, “Come in.”
I stepped aside, and Anthony Bellarosa entered the gatehouse and my life. I closed the door and led young Anthony into the small sitting room.
I indicated a rocking chair – Ethel’s chair – near the ash-heaped fireplace, and I took George’s threadbare wingback chair facing my guest. I did not offer him a drink.
Anthony did a quick eye-recon of the room, noting, I’m sure, the shabby furnishings, the faded wallpaper, and the worn carpet.
Also, he may have been evaluating some personal security issues. His father used to do this, more out of habit than paranoia. Frank Bellarosa also had an unconscious habit of checking out every female in the room while he was checking to see if anyone might want to kill him. I admire people who can multitask.
In the case of Susan Sutter, however, Frank had missed some crucial clues and signs of trouble. If I could speculate about those last few minutes of Frank Bellarosa’s life, I’d guess that the blood in Frank’s big brain had flowed south into his little brain at a critical moment. It happens. And when it does, the rest of your blood can wind up splattered around the room, as happened to poor Frank.
Anthony said, “Nice little place here.”
“Thank you.” In fact, these old estate gatehouses looked quaint and charming on the outside, but most of them were claustrophobic. I don’t know how I managed to share this cottage with Ethel, even for the short time I was here. I recall going out a lot.
Anthony asked me, “You lived here for a while. Right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re back from London. Right?”
I wondered how he knew that.
“But this Arab who owns the mansion owns this place, too. Right?”
“Right.” I further informed him, “He’s an Iranian.”
“Right. A fucking Arab.”
“The Iranians are not Arabs.”
“What are they?”
“Persians.”
This seemed to confuse him, so he changed the subject and asked, “So, you’re… what? Buying it? Renting it?”
“I’m a houseguest of Mrs. Allard.”
“Yeah? So, how’s the old lady?”
“Dying.”
“Right. No change there.”
Obviously, he’d been making inquiries.