But times change, and the Catholic Church had apparently gotten tired of providing funeral Masses for the less desirable sheep in its flock, who were, of course, the people who most needed the sacrament.

I thought, too, of Ethel’s wake at Walton’s, and her upcoming Saturday funeral service at St. Mark’s, presided over by the Reverend Hunnings, and then her interment in the Stanhopes’ private cemetery. Ethel Allard’s death was not going to make national news the way John Gotti’s had, or Frank Bellarosa’s before him.

This makes sense, of course, even if it doesn’t seem fair; if you live large, you die large. But if there is a higher authority, who asks questions at the gate, and examines your press clippings, then that’s where things are sorted out.

Susan said, “Good night,” and turned off her bedside lamp.

I read the tabloids for a while longer, then kissed my sleeping beauty, patted my shotgun, and turned off my light.

Thursday morning dawned gray and drizzly. I was hoping for good weather so the Stanhopes could go out and play five rounds of golf.

Susan, perfect hostess and loving daughter, was already downstairs, and I noticed that the arsenal had been put away somewhere, so as not to upset any houseguests or staff who might want to make our beds or clean the bathroom. I really needed to make Sophie comfortable with weapons. Maybe I’d teach her the Manual of Arms, and the five basic firing positions.

I showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where Susan had a pot of coffee made and a continental breakfast laid out on the island.

We kissed and hugged, and I inquired, “Are your parents taking a run?”

“They haven’t come down yet, but I heard them stirring.”

“Should I bring some martinis up to them?”

She ignored that – and I don’t blame her – and said, “I checked my e-mail, and Carolyn will be in on the 6:05 train, and she’ll take a taxi from the station.” She then filled me in on Edward’s itinerary and a few other things I needed to know, and I was happy to hear that we were going to skip the afternoon viewing at Walton’s. I’m sure Ethel would have liked to skip her entire funeral, but she had to be there, and we didn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t notice.

Anyway, I poured coffee for myself and for Susan, who urged me to share her vitamins, which I politely declined. I did, however, sink my teeth into a granola muffin.

So we sat at the table, reading the three tabloids that Sophie had gone out to buy, and I saw that Mr. Gotti was still in limbo at Papavero Funeral Home. The coffin was still closed, and only the family was allowed to visit. There was, however, some talk of a private funeral Mass in the chapel at the cemetery, by invitation only, date, time, and place to be determined. Well, that was a move in the right direction. Maybe the Brooklyn Diocese caught some flak from La Cosa Nostra Anti-Defamation League. I wondered, too, if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio had been invited.

I stood and went to the wall phone, and Susan asked, “Who are you calling?”

“Felix Mancuso.”

“Why?”

“To get an update.” I dialed Mr. Mancuso’s cell phone, and he answered. I said, “Hi, John Sutter.”

“Good morning.”

“And to you. Look, I don’t want to be a pest, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Anthony’s whereabouts or any news I can use?”

He replied, “I would have called you. But I’m glad you called.” He informed me, “I did get your message about your chance encounter with Bellarosa’s driver, Tony Rosini – that’s his last name – and we’re following up on that.”

That was about as much as I was going to get out of Felix Mancuso, and I didn’t want to pursue this with Susan in the room, so I told him something he didn’t know. “I was at the wake last night of Ethel Allard, whom I told you about, and one of the floral arrangements there – a really nice spray of white lilies – had a card signed from Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.”

Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “His wife and his mother’s names are on the card. So I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

That was my thought, too, and I was glad to have it confirmed. But to fully appreciate the underworld subtlety of this gesture, I asked, “Please explain.”

So he explained, “Well, had it been signed with just Anthony’s name, then he was sending a message to you, and to your wife.”

“It wasn’t our wake.”

“Well, that’s the message.”

“Which is…?”

“You know.” He advised me, “Put it out of your mind.”

“Okay.” I was really glad I had Felix Mancuso to do cultural interpretations for me. I asked, “You got my message about Amir Nasim putting in a full security system here?”

“I did. That’s good for everyone.”

“Well, it’s not good for Iranian or Italian hit men.”

“No, it’s not good for them.”

I asked, “Did you urge Nasim to do that?”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “He came to his own conclusions.”

“Okay… but is this threat to him real?”

“He has enemies.”

There was no use pursuing that, so I updated him, “Susan’s parents have arrived and are in the house.”

“Have you told them about your concerns?”

“No. We’re telling them that this security has to do with Nasim.”

“All right. No use alarming them.”

I said, “So you suggest that they stay elsewhere.”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I’ll take that up with Mrs. Sutter.”

After a few seconds, Mr. Mancuso chuckled and said, “You should work for us.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass that on.”

He informed me, “I had a very nice talk with Mrs. Sutter yesterday.”

“She said.”

He continued, “I think she understands the situation, and she’s alert without being alarmed.”

“Good. Did you tell her I want a dog?”

He chuckled again, and replied, “I’ve been asking my wife to get a dog for twenty years.”

“No one is trying to kill you.”

“Actually, they are.” He added, “But that’s part of my job, and not part of yours.”

“I hope not.”

He said, “I’m impressed with Mrs. Sutter.”

“Good. Me, too.” I added, “And she with you.”

“Good. Well, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. I was reading in the tabloids about John Gotti and the Brooklyn Diocese and all that. Did you see that?”

“I did.”

“So, how does this affect Anthony’s possible appearance at the wake and the funeral?”

“Well, there is no public wake, so all of Mr. Gotti’s friends and associates got a pass on that. But there will be a small, private funeral Mass at about noon in the chapel at Saint John’s Cemetery in Queens – that’s sort of the Mafia Valhalla – on this Saturday. So we’ll see who surfaces there.”

The newspapers hadn’t said anything about the time, place, or date, but I guess Special Agent Mancuso had better sources than the New York Post. I said, “Coincidentally, I’m going to Mrs. Allard’s funeral service and burial on Saturday here in Locust Valley. So I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to make John Gotti’s send-off.”

“I don’t think you’d be invited, Mr. Sutter.”

“Actually, I was. By Anthony.”

“Really? Well, I’ll be there, as an uninvited guest, and if I see anyone there who you know, I’ll speak to them on your behalf.”

“Thank you. And please call me.”

“I will.”

I said to him, “Speaking of the dead, Anna Bellarosa told me that she and her three sons visit dead Dad’s grave every Father’s Day.” I glanced at Susan, who had been listening to my conversation, but now went back to the newspaper. I continued, “So that may be a good time and place to look for Anthony.”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “Good thought. We’ll also double the stakeout at Bellarosa’s house and his mother’s house in Brooklyn on Father’s Day.”

It would be good, I thought, if Anthony felt he needed to be at his father’s grave on Father’s Day – maybe to get inspired, or maybe to avoid getting yelled at by Mom. And of course there’d be the dinner at his house, or Mom’s house. But Anthony really wasn’t stupid enough to go home or to Mom’s – but he might go to the cemetery. I reminded Mr. Mancuso, “Santa Lucia Cemetery.”