Beyond the acres of what had been Alhambra, I could see the golf course of The Creek Club, and I recalled that after Susan and I had taken Mr. and Mrs. Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner, Mr. Bellarosa had asked me to sponsor him for membership. Well, that’s always a problem when you take a marginal couple to the club for dinner; the next thing you know, they want you to get them in. I was fairly certain that the club membership committee would not approve of the application of a Mafia don, so, without wasting too much tact, I explained to Frank that even Jesus Christ, who was half Jewish on his mother’s side, couldn’t get into The Creek.

I have to admit, at least to myself, that despite all that happened that spring, summer, and fall, and despite the tragic end of a life and a marriage, I did have some fun with all this – which, I suppose, is like Mrs. Lincoln answering the question of, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?” with the honest reply, “It was a funny comedy, and I was laughing until the shot rang out.”

I looked to where the reflecting pool and the classical Roman garden had once been, but the landscape was so different now that I couldn’t be sure exactly where it was, though I thought it may have sat in a low piece of land where a house now stood.

The disturbing images from my dream took form in my mind, but I didn’t want to see them any longer, so I wished them away and they were gone.

I looked back down the long sloping allée toward the gatehouse and the road. On the other side of Grace Lane was a big colonial-style house set back about a hundred yards on a hill. This house was owned by the DePauws, though I didn’t know if they were still there. But ten years ago the FBI had used their property as an observation post to see and photograph anyone coming and going at Alhambra.

On the night of the failed hit outside of Giulio’s restaurant in Little Italy, I’d been escorted to the police station at Midtown South, where I had the opportunity to see many of these photos taken with a telescopic lens, and the police and the FBI asked me to try to identify if any of Frank Bellarosa’s photographed visitors were the same two men that I’d seen outside of Giulio’s.

Among the photographs of Mr. Bellarosa’s friends, family, and business associates were a few nice shots of Susan and me on the occasion of our first visit to the Bellarosas’ for coffee and cannolis. It occurred to me then that the FBI knew, long before I did, that Susan and Frank were going at it. I now wondered if the FBI already knew that Anthony Bellarosa and I were on our fourth tête-à-tête. I also wondered what had happened to Special Agent Felix Mancuso who’d tried so earnestly to save me from myself. Maybe I needed to call him.

I got back into my car and proceeded to a small road on the left called Pine Lane, which led me into a large cul-de-sac where three stucco villas with red-tiled roofs stood a hundred yards apart.

I realized that I was now close to the property line of Stanhope Hall, and in fact, I could see, behind the three villas, the line of towering white pines that separated the two estates. So, as the crow flies, or as the horse trots, Susan’s guest cottage and Anthony’s villa were only about five hundred yards apart.

The three villas on the cul-de-sac were slightly different in style and color, and the security guard said it was the yellow house, so I steered toward the last house on the left and stopped in front of the neat lawn of Casa Bellarosa. I got out, remembering the crabapple jelly.

The wide driveway held the black Cadillac Escalade and a white minivan, which I assumed belonged to Megan Bellarosa, and a yellow Corvette, which I guessed was Anthony’s getaway car. Above the garage doors was a basketball hoop mounted on a backboard.

I noticed, too, parked in front of me, a standard black Mafioso-model Cadillac with tinted windows.

I walked up the driveway and turned onto a concrete path that took me to the front portico.

I checked my watch, and saw it was 4:15. I was late, but not fashionably so.

I noticed there was a security camera above the door, so I smiled for the camera and rang the bell.

Bellarosa had been notified by Bell Security that I was on my way, and he’d also seen me on his security monitor, so he didn’t feign any surprise when he opened the door and greeted me by saying, “Hey, glad you could make it. Come on in.”

Anthony was wearing a shiny black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and the shirt was tucked into a pair of charcoal gray pleated pants held up by a pencil-thin belt. His loafers, I noticed, were made of some sort of reptilian leather. I didn’t think anyone from the New York Times Style section would be calling soon.

Anyway, I said, “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Yeah. And you’re not gonna run off this time.”

Wanna bet?

I thought, out of habit, he was going to ask me if I wanted to check my gun, but instead, he asked, “Any problem at the guard booth?”

I assumed the guard had ratted me out about the don Bellarosa thing, and Anthony wanted me to know he wasn’t amused. I replied, “He seemed hard of hearing.”

“Yeah? Hard to get good help.”

And speaking of hard of hearing, an Italian male vocalist was belting out a lively song, which was booming out of the wall speakers, and Anthony announced my arrival by shouting over the music, “Hey, Megan! We got company!”

Anthony went to a control panel on the wall, turned down the music, and said to me, “Great album. It’s called Mob Hits.” He laughed. “Get it?”

I smiled.

While we waited for Megan, and while Anthony played with the bass and treble knobs, I looked around the big foyer and into the living and dining rooms. To be honest, it wasn’t all that bad. I’d expected an ornate Italian version of Mr. Nasim’s horrid faux French, but Megan, and probably a decorator, had played it safe with Chairman-of-the-Board contemporary in muted tones. There were, however, a lot of paint-by-number oils of sunny Italy on the walls, and I spotted two crucifixes.

Megan Bellarosa entered the foyer, and I was pleasantly surprised. She was in her late twenties, tall and thin, and she had a pretty freckled Irish face and blue eyes. Also, she had what looked like natural red hair, so from personal experience I knew she was either bitchy, high-strung, or just plain crazy.

She gave me a sort of tentative smile, wondering, I’m sure, what the hell her husband was thinking when he invited me to a family dinner. I said to her, “It was very nice of you to invite me.”

She replied, “I’m glad you could make it. We have lots of food,” which removed any concern I may have had about eating the last of the family rations. She asked, “Can I take your coat?”

I didn’t have a coat – only a blue blazer – and I don’t part with it very easily, so I said, “I’ll just wear it.” I remembered to say, “You have a beautiful home.”

She replied, “Thanks. Anthony can show you around later.”

Her accent was distinctly low-class, as was her pink polyester tunic and her black polyester stretch pants. Considering, though, her good features, Professor Higgins could do wonders with her.

I handed her the jar of crabapple jelly and said, “This is homemade.”

She took the jar, looked at the label, smiled and exclaimed, “Oh, geez – my grandmother used to make this.”

So we were really off to a good start. In fact, Megan gave me a nice big smile, and for a second she reminded me of Susan. The swarthy Bellarosa men, apparently, liked the northern European, fair-skinned type. Dear Sigmund-

Before I could analyze this further, Anthony said, “Hey, my mother is excited to see you. Come on.”

I followed Anthony and Megan through the foyer into a big sunny kitchen, and standing at the center island, cutting cheese on a board, was Anna Bellarosa. She saw me, dropped her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and charged toward me exclaiming, “John! Oh my God!”