Hilarious. Here’s another example of how to use the word in a sentence: Frank had a comare named Susan.

Anthony asked, “Whaddaya think? You think he got blow jobs under his desk here?”

“I think the history books are silent on that.”

“Too bad. Anyway, I’ll get somebody to check with the local historical society about pictures of how this place looked when Roosevelt was here. We’re gonna reproduce that.”

Whether or not I wanted to work in a museum – I mean, whose office was this, anyway? In any case, a check with the Oyster Bay Historical Society would reveal to Anthony that Roosevelt didn’t actually work here. Following that, a check of the Oyster Bay Enterprise-Pilot obituaries would show a dead realtor.

He suggested, “We need a moose head on this wall.” He laughed, then led me into a smaller room, which looked the same as the bedroom, except it was even shabbier.

He said, “This is where your private secretary sits.” He further shared his vision with me and said, “You put a pull-out couch in here and get a little fica. Capisce?” He laughed.

How could this deal get any better? Sex, money, power, and even history.

There was a desk and file cabinet in this room, and I asked Anthony, “Who lived here?”

“A literary agent.” He added, “He got evicted, but the other tenants have leases, and I need to get them out.”

“Make them a fair offer.” Like, leave or die.

“Right. A good offer.” He led me into the small kitchen at the back of the apartment, and said, “We rip this out and make it the coffee room with a bar. So? What do you think?”

“I think this restoration will attract a lot of local press. Do you want that?”

“Good press for you. I’m a silent partner.”

“Not for long.”

“I know how to do this so my name never comes up. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“You’ve already spoken to the realtor, Anthony.”

“No. Anthony Stephano spoke to the realtor on the phone. And when the realtor gets here, my name is Anthony Stephano. Capisce?”

“People know your face.”

“Not like they knew my father’s face. I keep a low profile. The problem is the name, so we don’t use that name. And if anyone thinks my name is not Stephano, they’re not going to say shit. Right?”

I suggested to him, “If you used your real name, you could get the seller down to two million.”

He smiled. “Yeah? Why is that, John?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I took a wild guess and said, “Maybe he’d be nervous.”

He smiled again. Clearly he enjoyed the power and the glory of being don Bellarosa, and the notion that men would quake in their boots while talking business with him.

On the other hand, I detected, or imagined, that there had been a subtle shift in the business practices of this organization in the last decade – or maybe it was Anthony’s style that seemed different from what I remembered when I was an honorary mobster.

In any case, what remained the same was me; these people did not intimidate me. I was, after all, John Whitman Sutter, and even the dumbest goombah knew that there was a class of people who they weren’t supposed to whack, which was why, for instance, U.S. Attorney Alphonse Ferragamo was still alive. The Mafia had rules, and they did not like bad press, or any press at all.

But even if there was no danger of getting whacked, there was always the danger of getting seduced, corrupted, or manipulated. I think that’s where I was now. But, I reminded myself, I was here not because of any moral failing on my part, or any further need to screw up my life for kicks – I’d already done that. It was because of Susan.

This lady, of course, would normally be at the very top of any Do Not Hit list, except for the fact that she clipped a Mafia don. Whoops.

So, what I needed to do was… what?

Anthony returned to the subject and said, “I’m a legitimate businessman. Bell Enterprises. What maybe happened in the past is over. But if people want to think-”

“Anthony. Please. You’re insulting my intelligence.”

He didn’t seem happy that I interrupted his nonsense, but he said, “I’m telling you what you want to hear.”

“I don’t want to hear bullshit. The best thing I can hear from you on that subject is nothing.”

He lit a cigarette, then said to me, “Okay.”

“What do you want from me? And why?”

He sat on the windowsill, took a drag, and said, “Okay, here’s the real deal – I spoke to Jack Weinstein, my father’s old attorney. You remember him. He likes you. And he tells me that I need to speak to you, which I did. He says you are the smartest, most honest, most stand-up guy he’s ever dealt with. And this coming from a smart Jew who stood up to my father when he had to. But always in my father’s best interest. And Jack tells me I need a guy like you. Just to talk to. Just to get some advice. Like Jack did for my father. Somebody who is not a paesano. Understand?”

“You mean, like a consigliere?”

“Yeah… that only means counselor. People think it means… like something to do with the… people in organized crime. It’s Italian for counselor. Lawyers are called counselor. Right?”

“So, this is Jack Weinstein’s old job?”

“Yeah. And Jack says I also need somebody like the guys who used to follow the Caesars around and whisper in their ears, ‘You’re only a mortal man.’”

“Is that a full-time job?”

He forced a smile and said, “It was then. This guy reminded Caesar that he was a man, not a god. In other words, even Caesar has to take a shit like everybody else.”

“And you feel you need to be reminded of this?”

Again, he forced a smile and said, “Everybody does. Everybody who’s successful. And Jack thinks maybe I need this. Hey, everybody in Washington should have somebody like that following them around. Right?”

“It might help.”

As best I could figure, Jack Weinstein, a smart man, easily recognized that young Anthony was in over his head. But Jack saw the potential, and if he could keep Anthony alive long enough, then the young tiger would grow up big, strong, and hopefully smart enough to rule, kill, and scare the crap out of his enemies. And Jack, perceptive man that he was, thought of John Sutter to take the job that he once had with Frank, and maybe, too, to take the place of Anthony’s deceased father. I mean, was I flattered to be thought of as a possible father substitute to a young man whose ambition it was to grow up to be as dangerous and deceitful as his real father? And if I succeeded at this, maybe someday Anthony would want to fuck my wife if I had one.

This whole situation had a touch of irony and maybe farce to it – but it wasn’t funny. It would have been funny if Susan wasn’t in this room, but she was, and both Anthony and I knew that.

I said to him, “So, that’s what Jack thinks you need. A counselor and someone to tell you when your head is getting too big. What do you think you need from me?”

“I need someone I can trust, someone with no connections to my business. Someone who can’t gain by my loss. I need your brains and your no-bullshit advice.”

His father had additionally been impressed with my pedigree, my respectability, and my white-shoe law firm. The pedigree was still there, but Anthony wasn’t interested in that; he was buying brains and balls today. I asked him, “Advice on what?”

“On whatever I need advice on.”

“But then I’d hear things I don’t want to hear.”

“That won’t happen.” He added, “And even if it did, we have a lawyer-client relationship.”

“We do?”

“That’s up to you, Counselor.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Two hundred a year. That’s the annual retainer. And you can do whatever else you want to make a buck. Like work on getting my father’s assets back. Or tax law. In fact, I need a tax lawyer.”

I had the thought that he had more need for a priest and a smack in the ass from his mother than a consigliere or someone to tell him to get over himself. And maybe that should be my first piece of advice to him. Meanwhile, I asked, “Is that it?”