The Gate House Read Online Free PDF

American males, who take a long time to grow up, Anthony Bellarosa was a man, or at least close to it. I recalled, too, that he used to be Tony, but that diminutive lacked gravitas, so now he was Anthony.
    More importantly, I wondered if he’d taken over his father’s business.
    The most fundamental principle of American criminal law is that a person is innocent until proven guilty. But in this case, I recalled quite clearly what Frank Bellarosa had said about his three sons. “My oldest guy, Frankie, he’s got no head for the family business, so I sent him to college, then set him up in a little thing of his own in Jersey. Tommy is the one in Cornell. He wants to run a big hotel in Atlantic City or Vegas. I’ll set him up with Frankie in Atlantic City. Tony, the one at La Salle, is another case. He wants in.”
    I looked at Anthony, formerly known as Tony, and recalled Frank’s pride in his youngest son when he concluded, “The little punk wants my job. You know what? If he wants it bad enough, he’ll have it.”
    I suspected that Tony did get the job and became don Anthony Bellarosa. But I didn’t know that for sure.
    Anthony asked me, “Is it okay if I call you John?”
    “I’m Tony now.” It’s probably not a good idea to make fun of a possible Mafia don, but I did it with his father, who appreciated my lack of ring-kissing. In any case, I needed to establish the pecking order.
    Anthony forced a smile and said, “I remember calling you Mr. Sutter.”
    I didn’t reply to that and asked him, “What can I do for you, Anthony?”
    “Yeah, well, I’m sorry to just drop in, but I was driving by, and I saw the lights on here, and like I said, I heard you were back, so the gate was closed and I came in through the . . . what do you call it? The people gate.”
    “The postern gate.”
    “Yeah. It was unlocked. You should lock that.”
    “I’m not the gatekeeper.”
    “Right. Anyway, so I got this idea to stop and say hello.”
    I think it was a little more premeditated than that. I said to him, “I hope you’re not blocking the gate.”
    “No. My driver took the car up the road. Hey, do you remember Tony? My father’s driver.”
    “I remember that
he
used to be Anthony.”
    He smiled. “Yeah. We made a deal. Less confusing.”
    “Right.” I didn’t think the dead don’s driver had much to say about that deal. Regarding the family business, the surviving employees, and the rules of succession, I recalled quite clearly that there was another member of the family who wanted Frank Bellarosa’s job, so, to see how Anthony reacted, I asked, “How is your uncle Sal?”
    Anthony Bellarosa stared at me and did not reply. I stared back.
    The last time I’d seen Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, was at Frank’s funeral. Prior to my wife clipping Frank Bellarosa, someone else had attempted the same thing, and the prime suspect was Uncle Sal. This had occurred at a restaurant in Little Italy, at which I was unfortunately present and close enough to Dandy Don Bellarosa and Vinnie, his bodyguard, to get splattered with Vinnie’s blood. Not one of my better nights out.
    In any case, Uncle Sal was not present at the failed hit, of course, but his signature was most probably on the contract. I hate it when families squabble, and though I’m personally familiar with the problem, none of the Sutters or Stanhopes, to the best of my knowledge, have ever taken out a contract on a family member . . . though it’s not a bad idea. In fact, I think I just found some use for Anthony Bellarosa. Just kidding. Really.
    Anthony finally replied, “He’s okay.”
    “Good. Give your uncle Sal my regards when you see him.”
    “Yeah.”
    There are some things in life that you never forget, and those months during the spring and summer leading up to Frank’s death in October and my leaving Susan are filled with sights and sounds that are truly burned into my mind forever. In addition to seeing Vinnie’s head