Anthony, a modern reality, intruded into my thoughts and inquired, “Hey, did you see that piece of ass on that horse?”

I assumed he wasn’t admiring the horse’s ass, but rather than ask for a grammatical clarification, I ignored him; kidnap victims are not required to make conversation.

I retreated into my ruminations and wondered if Susan had found what she was looking for when she returned here. Based on what Amir Nasim had told me, maybe she had. And I wondered what she thought about me returning. Quite possibly, she saw, or imagined, this circumstance as an opportunity to resume our lives together.

But it’s not easy to pick up where you left off, especially if a decade has passed. People change, new lovers have come and gone, or not gone, and each of the parties has processed the past in different ways.

Anthony asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“Your mother’s lasagna.”

He laughed. “Yeah? You got it.”

Dinner at the Bellarosas’ was not high on my social calendar, so I said, “I’m busy Sunday. But thank you.”

“Try to stop by. We eat at four.” He added instructions, saying, “I’ll give the guy at the guard booth your name and he’ll give you directions.”

I didn’t reply.

We drove along the shore, then entered the quaint village of Oyster Bay, and Tony headed into the center of town, which was crowded with Saturday people on various missions.

Saturdays, when I was younger and the kids were younger, were hectic. Carolyn and Edward always had sporting events, or golf and tennis lessons, or birthday parties, or whatever else Susan and the other mothers had cooked up for them, and they needed to be driven, usually with friends, on a tight schedule that rivaled the split-second timing of the Flying Wallendas.

This was all before cell phones, of course, and I recalled losing a few kids, missing a few pick-ups, and once dropping off Edward and his friends at the wrong soccer game.

“What’s so funny?”

I glanced at Anthony and replied, “This is exciting. I’ve never been kidnapped before.”

He chuckled and replied, “Hey, you’re not kidnapped. You’re doing me a favor. And you get a ride home.”

“Even if I don’t do you the favor?”

“Well, then we see.” He thought that was funny and so did Tony. I did not.

Tony found an illegal parking space near the center of the village, and he stayed with the car while Anthony and I got out.

Anthony walked along Main Street and I walked with him. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t want anyone I knew to see me walking with a Mafia don, but then I realized it didn’t matter. Better yet, it could be fun.

Anthony stopped near the corner where Main Street crossed another shopping street, and he pointed to a three-story brick building on the opposite corner and informed me, “That’s a historic building.”

“Really?” I knew the building, of course, since I’ve lived around here most of my life, but Anthony, like his father, couldn’t imagine that anyone knew anything until you heard it from him.

Anthony further informed me, “That was Teddy Roosevelt’s summer office.” He glanced at me to see if I fully appreciated his amazing knowledge. He pointed and said, “On the second floor.”

“No kidding?”

He asked me, “Can you believe that the President of the United States ran the country from that dump?”

“Hard to believe.” It wasn’t actually a dump; it was, in fact, a rather nice turn-of-the-century structure, with a mansard roof, housing a combination bookstore and café on the ground floor, and apartments on the upper floors, accessible through a door to the right of the bookstore.

Anthony continued, “You got to picture this – the President drives into town from his place on Sagamore Hill” – he pointed east to where Teddy Roosevelt’s summer White House still stood, about three miles away – “and he’s got maybe one Secret Service guy with him and a driver. And he just gets out of the car, and, like, tips his straw hat to some people, and goes in that door and walks up the stairs. Right?”

To enhance this image, I suggested, “But maybe he stops first for coffee and bagels.”

“Yeah… no – no bagels. Anyway, there was offices up there then, and he’s got a secretary – a guy – and maybe another guy who sends telegraph messages and goes to the post office to get the mail. And there’s, like, one telephone in the drugstore down the block.” He looked at me and asked, “Can you believe that?”

I thought I’d already said it was hard to believe, but to answer his question I replied, again, “Hard to believe.” In fact, Roosevelt did most of his work at Sagamore Hill, and rarely came to this office, but Anthony seemed enthused, and he had some point to make, so I let him go on.

He continued, “And it’s summer, and there’s no air-conditioning, and these guys all wore suits and ties, and wool underwear or something. Right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe they had an icebox up there.”

“Maybe.”

He inquired, “Did they have electric fans then?”

“Good question,” which reminded me of another good question, and I asked, “What’s the point?”

“Well, there are two points. Maybe three.”

“Can I have one?”

“Yeah. The first point is the building is for sale. Three million. Whaddaya think?”

“Buy it.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because you want it.”

“Right. And it’s a piece of history.”

“Priceless.” I glanced at my watch and said to him, “I need to get going. I’ll call a cab.”

“You’re always running off. First you show up, then you run off.”

This was true and astute. I guess I had an approach/avoidance response with the Bellarosas. I said, “I didn’t exactly show up this time. I was kidnapped. But I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Make it twelve. So, what I’m thinking is, I’ll get rid of that bookstore on the ground floor and put in a high-end moneymaker – some kind of Triple A chain boutique, or maybe like a food franchise place. Baskin-Robbins ice cream or a Starbucks. Right?”

“You need to speak to the village fathers about that.”

“Yeah. I know that.” He added, “That’s where you come in.”

“This is where I leave.”

“Come on, John. It’s no big deal. I buy the building, you handle the closing, then you see what the old shits are going to allow.” He motioned up and down the crowded street and said, “Look at this place. Money. I could get five times the rent if I push it as an historic location. Right?”

“Well-”

“Same with the upstairs spaces. Maybe a law firm. Like, rent Teddy Roosevelt’s office. The clients would love it. I get a decorator in and make it look like it did a hundred years ago. Except for the toilet and the air-conditioning.” He asked me, “Am I off base on this?”

“Anthony, I’ve been gone ten years. Get someone to work out the numbers for you.”

“Fuck the numbers. I’m buying history.”

“Right. Good luck.”

“And here’s my second point. And this has nothing to do with business. And here’s the question – what the fuck has happened to this country?”

Well, for one thing, the Mafia is still around. But people who are part of the problem never see themselves as part of the problem; the problem is always someone else. I replied, “The problem, as I see it, is fast-food chains and lawyers. Too many of both.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lot more than that. Do you think a President could walk down this street today with one bodyguard?”

“You do. And he’s in the car.”

“I’m not the fucking President, John.”

I noticed he didn’t say, “No one is trying to kill me, John,” which was what most people would have said.

He continued, “Julius Caesar walked out of the Senate building, with no bodyguards, no Praetorian guards, because that’s how it was then. But they stabbed him to death. And that was the end of the Republic, and the beginning of the emperors thinking they were like gods. Understand?”