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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 28 из 490I’m not being entirely facetious; Susan has this upper-class belief that just because you shoot a man,it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be polite to his friends and family.
Anthony suggested, “Maybe we can go to dinner some night.”
“Who?”
“Us.”
“Why?”
“Like, just to talk.”
“About?”
“My father. He really respected you.”
I wasn’t sure I felt the same about don Bellarosa. I mean, he wasn’t pure evil. In fact, he was a good husband and good father, except for the extramarital affairs and getting his youngest son into organized crime. And he could be a good friend, except for the lying and manipulating, not to mention fucking my wife. He also had a sense of humor, and he laughed at my jokes, which showed good intellect. But did I respect him? No. But I liked him.
Anthony said, “My father trusted you.”
I’m sure Anthony really did want to know about his father; but he also wanted to know more about me, and why his father thought so highly of me. And then… well, like his father, he’d make me an offer I should refuse. Or was I being egotistical, or overly suspicious of Anthony’s neighborly visit?
Anthony saw that I was vacillating, so he said, “I’d consider it a favor.”
I recalled that these people put a high value on favors, whether they were offered or received, so I should not take the word lightly. On the other hand, one favor needed to be repaid with another, as I found out the hard way ten years ago. Therefore, absolutely no good could come of me having anything further to do with Anthony Bellarosa.
But… to blow him off might not be a good idea in regard to my concern about Susan. And if I was very paranoid, I’d also consider my own concern about Salvatore D’Alessio. As Frank once explained to me, “Italian Alzheimer’s is when you forget everything except who pissed you off.”
Anyway, there were still some blasts from the past that perhaps needed discussion, and with those thoughts in mind I made my second mistake of the evening and said, “All right. Dinner.”
“Good.” He smiled and asked, “How about Giulio’s?”
I really didn’t want to return to the restaurant in Little Italy where Frank took three shotgun blasts. Bad memories aside, I didn’t think the owner or staff would be happy to see me show up with Junior. I said, “Let’s try Chinese.”
“Okay. How about tomorrow night?”
It was Monday, and I needed about forty-eight hours to come to my senses, so I said, “Wednesday. There’s a place in Glen Cove called Wong Lee. Let’s say eight.”
“I can pick you up.
Anthony suggested, “Maybe we can go to dinner some night.”
“Who?”
“Us.”
“Why?”
“Like, just to talk.”
“About?”
“My father. He really respected you.”
I wasn’t sure I felt the same about don Bellarosa. I mean, he wasn’t pure evil. In fact, he was a good husband and good father, except for the extramarital affairs and getting his youngest son into organized crime. And he could be a good friend, except for the lying and manipulating, not to mention fucking my wife. He also had a sense of humor, and he laughed at my jokes, which showed good intellect. But did I respect him? No. But I liked him.
Anthony said, “My father trusted you.”
I’m sure Anthony really did want to know about his father; but he also wanted to know more about me, and why his father thought so highly of me. And then… well, like his father, he’d make me an offer I should refuse. Or was I being egotistical, or overly suspicious of Anthony’s neighborly visit?
Anthony saw that I was vacillating, so he said, “I’d consider it a favor.”
I recalled that these people put a high value on favors, whether they were offered or received, so I should not take the word lightly. On the other hand, one favor needed to be repaid with another, as I found out the hard way ten years ago. Therefore, absolutely no good could come of me having anything further to do with Anthony Bellarosa.
But… to blow him off might not be a good idea in regard to my concern about Susan. And if I was very paranoid, I’d also consider my own concern about Salvatore D’Alessio. As Frank once explained to me, “Italian Alzheimer’s is when you forget everything except who pissed you off.”
Anyway, there were still some blasts from the past that perhaps needed discussion, and with those thoughts in mind I made my second mistake of the evening and said, “All right. Dinner.”
“Good.” He smiled and asked, “How about Giulio’s?”
I really didn’t want to return to the restaurant in Little Italy where Frank took three shotgun blasts. Bad memories aside, I didn’t think the owner or staff would be happy to see me show up with Junior. I said, “Let’s try Chinese.”
“Okay. How about tomorrow night?”
It was Monday, and I needed about forty-eight hours to come to my senses, so I said, “Wednesday. There’s a place in Glen Cove called Wong Lee. Let’s say eight.”
“I can pick you up.