I had a great idea, and went into the living room and got a framed photo of Carolyn and Edward and said, “They’ll be here tomorrow night. Maybe the four of you can go out.”

Susan said, “John.”

That means something different every time, but it usually means, “Shut up.”

Elizabeth, however, said, “That would be nice.”

Tom and Laurence showed up, and I had to explain about the guards and the paranoid Iranian. They both thought that was exciting, but I could see that Elizabeth was starting to think there was more to this, and she glanced at Susan, then at me, and I nodded.

This gave me another great idea, and I said to Susan, “Let’s call the Nasims and ask them to come over.”

“I’m not sure what they can eat or drink.”

“I’ll tell them to bring their own food.” I added, “Mr. Nasim would love to speak to your father about Stanhope Hall.”

“I don’t think my parents are up for much more company.”

That was why I wanted to invite the Nasims. I said, “Amir and Soheila might be hurt or insulted if we didn’t include them in our funeral rituals.” I asked Elizabeth, “Would you mind?”

She replied, “Not at all.” She added, “They knew Mom for nine years, and they were always very nice to her.”

“Good.”

Laurence was following the conversation and inquired, “Can we ask him who wants to kill him and why?”

I replied, “Of course. He’s very open about that.”

I felt the balance tipping in my favor, but then Susan said, “No. Some other time.”

So the Stanhopes would have to forgo a multicultural experience. Maybe I’d invite the Nasims over for dinner and include my mother. She slobbers over third world people, and she’d be proud of me for having Iranian friends.

Anyway, by 10:30, we were all a little lubricated, and we sat in the dining room and passed around platters of hot and cold salads, which I was afraid might agree with William and Charlotte. I’d insisted that they sit at opposite heads of the table, and to make sure they had no one to talk to, I placed Susan, me, and Elizabeth in the middle, and I placed Tom and Laurence on either side of William, and Tom Junior and Betsy on either side of Charlotte. I’m good at this.

William and Charlotte excused themselves early, as I knew they would, and by midnight everyone left, and Susan, Sophie, and I were cleaning up.

I said to Susan, “That was nice. It looked like everyone was having a good time.”

Susan agreed, “That was very nice.”

“Your parents seemed a bit quiet.”

“They were tired.”

“I think we’re out of gin.”

“I’ll get some tomorrow.” She looked at me, smiled, and said, “This is like old times.”

“It is.” But it wasn’t.

We hugged and kissed, which made Sophie smile, and Susan said to me, “I’m so happy, John, but also sad.”

“I know.”

“But I know we can make up for all the lost years.”

“We’ll stay up two hours later every night.”

“And never take each other for granted, and call twice a day, and not work late at the office, and no more stupid nights out with the girls-”

“Do you mean me or you?”

“Be serious. And we’re going to have your mother for dinner once a week-”

“Hold on.”

“And meet Carolyn in the city for dinner and a show, and fly to L.A. once a month to see Edward.”

“You forgot Hilton Head.”

“And we’ll do that, too. And you’ll see, John, that my parents will accept you. They’ll never love you the way I love you, but they will come to respect you, and when they see how happy I am, they’ll be fine.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Admit that tonight wasn’t as bad as you predicted.”

“It got a little rocky there over cocktails, and maybe we didn’t have to hear about Dan so much, and I could have done without the prying questions, or the lecture on working hard for forgiveness… but other than that, it was a pleasant reunion.”

“But it could have been worse.” She predicted, “Tomorrow will be better.”

“And Monday will be even better than that.”

She kissed me and said, “I’m going up.”

“I’ll check the doors.”

Susan went upstairs, and I checked all the doors and windows and made sure the outdoor lights were on. Then I said good night to Sophie, got the carbine out of the hall closet, and went up to the master bedroom.

Susan was reading in bed, and she glanced at the rifle, but didn’t comment.

I’d loaded the shotgun earlier with the heavy game buckshot in one barrel and a deer slug in the other, and I took the gun from my closet, and with a weapon in each hand I asked Susan, “Would you rather sleep with Mr. Beretta or Mr. Winchester?”

She continued reading her magazine and said, “I don’t care.”

I leaned the carbine against her nightstand and rested the shotgun against my side of the bed. I said to her, “A full-perimeter security system will be in place in a week or so.”

She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, “Did you have a chance to look at the floral arrangements?”

“I did.”

“Okay. So?”

“I saw it.”

I said, “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” I explained, “I mentioned Ethel’s illness when I was there Sunday, and Anna remembered her. And Anthony isn’t even home. So I think that was just a nice gesture from Anna and Megan.”

“Or maybe a thank-you for slashing the painting.”

I thought about that and said, “I’m sure Anthony saw that first and got rid of it.”

Again, she didn’t reply. So I got undressed and slipped on my Yale T-shirt.

Susan inquired, “Am I going to have to see that every night?”

“It’s who I am.”

“God help you.”

I guess that was a joke. But it was close to blasphemy.

I got into bed and read one of the city tabloids that Sophie brought with her every morning to improve her English, which I think explained some of her problems with the language.

Anyway, I was specifically looking for an article about John Gotti, and I found a small piece that reported that Mr. Gotti’s body had arrived from Missouri and was lying inside a closed coffin at the Papavero Funeral Home in the Maspeth section of Queens. The article seemed to suggest that there was no public viewing of the body, and that funeral plans were indefinite because the Diocese of Brooklyn had denied Mr. Gotti a public funeral Mass.

That seemed a little inconsistent with the forgiving message of Christ, but, hey, it was their church and they could do what they wanted. Still, it struck me as a badly thought-out public relations move, and likely to backfire and cause some public sympathy for John Gotti.

More importantly to me, it seemed as though there wasn’t going to be a long wake and a Mass, so Anthony Bellarosa might not feel the need to surface in public this week. Maybe I should send an e-mail to the Brooklyn Diocese explaining that I, the FBI, and the NYPD really wanted to see all the paesanos who showed up at the wake and the funeral Mass. What’s wrong with this cardinal? Didn’t he see The Godfather?

Anyway, future plans for Mr. Gotti’s mortal remains and his immortal soul were on hold, awaiting, I guess, further negotiations. Maybe somebody should offer a big contribution to the diocese. Maybe somebody did, and the cardinal was holding out for more.

Frank Bellarosa, incidentally, had no such problems. I was sure that his soul had as many black spots on it as Mr. Gotti’s did, but Frank thought ahead. And I think, too, he had a premonition of his approaching death, though not the way it actually happened.

I recalled very clearly that the day after our Mafia theme party at the Plaza, Frank and I, with Lenny and Vinnie and a big black Cadillac, crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, where Frank had grown up. We went to his boyhood church, Santa Lucia, and had coffee with three elderly Italian priests who told us how difficult it was to maintain the old church in a changing neighborhood, and so forth. Bottom line on that, Frank wrote a check for fifty large, and I guess the check cleared because when Frank’s time came – I glanced at Susan – a few months later, there was no problem having his funeral Mass at Santa Lucia.