Deadly Duo Trilogy

By Paul E. Pepe

* * *
Senor Morales sighed heavily and reached into the top pocket of his Cuban jacket. He took out a long, roughly-made cigar, and slowly, savoring the smell of the fine tobacco, bit off the end, spitting out bits and pieces of frayed tobacco onto the grass floor of the summerhouse. He gazed across the ocean that fronter his property in the Key West, and sighed again. The hazy, oppressive August afternoon held a promise of rain. The air was thick with the smell of fog and oncoming wet. It was difficult for him to breath, more so now after the fine Sunday afternoon meal his wife had prepared.
He spat again, loosing the fragments of tobacco from his tongue, and slowly licked the end of the cigar, tasting the bitter, pungent taste of the outer leaf tobaccos. He matches, orhorrorsa lighter. The lighter would absurd the smell of the fuel to the cigar and spoil its taste, ruining the expensive tobacco, and making it unfit to smoke. The only way to light a real cigar was with a wooden match, and he kept a good supply of them available for just this purpose.
He struck the match and smelled the sulphur smell that flared up with the white heat of the flame.
He waited just a moment until the match was well lit, and the head of sulphur had burned away, and then he slowly, lovingly, placed the flame to his cigar, drawing in huge drafts if air and smoke. He circled the cigar around the match obtaining a full, regular and even light to the end of the cigar. He watched carefully as the flame shot upward for a moment, and then died as he removed the fire from the cigar. He held the flame away, inspecting the lit end of the cigar, making certain that it was drawing properly. Then he shook out the match and dropped it into the huge coach shell that served as an ashtray. A magnificient cigar should have a magnificient ashtray, he thought, grunting with pleasure as he began drawing on the cigar, and holding one hand on his huge belly in contentment.
Maria brought him his glass of rum arriving alienfooted across the green scrub grass that blanketed the back lawn, carrying the smokey amber liquid carefully in the wide-mouthed glass.
He looked at her, admiring again her slim waist and the handsome long, black hair that fell across her face like a curtain, and her finely chiseled cheekbones. He smiled at her and said, Gracias. She smiled back at him, handing him the tumbler and planting a kiss on his cheek.
She left him now, smiling and returning to the kitchen to be with her Mother and her Sisters, to talk and to giggle among themselves, and to clean up the remains of the mid-day feast they had just finished.
Senor Morales sipped at his drink and stared off across the water. The gray of the late afternoon and seemed to give him vision of what lay across that water. Ninety miles, he thought. Ninety miles, it seemed to say to him. And he watched the gulls wheeling in the fetid air, turning and dipping ,chasing each other and the elusive fish they needed for food. They could fly there right now, he thought, half aloud. And he began to remember. The white sands of Verdadero Beach, where he had spent so much of his childhood.
The sun glancing off the water, the green seaweed, caught in the tidal flow, and moving with the water, the small grass huts that dotted the beach and offered shade from the sometimes merciless sun. Gone now, he thought. Gone forever. Gone with the madam who came from mountain and ruled that tiny Island that had been his home from birth to middle age.
And now he sat, comfortable, wealthy, the cigar smoke drifting lazily around his head as he looked out across the ocean that lay calm and serene at his feet, that spread ninety miles to the sandy beaches of his beloved homeland.
But now it was too late for him. The years had quickened and sped by, and he had grown old. His chance was gone, in failed midnight sotties that he had supported and that ended in broken bodies and patriots blood mingling with the silv

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483690049

Paul E. Pepe

Paul e. Pepe is retired after a long career in marketing. He has been a newspaper publisher and editor and college professor. He lives in laurel hollow, New York and Sarasota, Florida with his wife, Miriam. He is currently working on a new novel. His previous published works include: Strangers By Day, The Sleeping Giant,The Old Man, Footsteps and Travels with Mimi and children’s voices, Marie Elena and Five Women I Love. Cover illustration by Eva and Carina Lewandowski

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The night was perfect. The moon was hidden from view by a thick shelf of clouds. Rain was in the air, wafting on the winds that blew in from the North. Off to the West, a rumble of thunder echoed across the valley. The temperature on this April night in Oakdale, a wealthy suburb of Chicago, was a cool thirty degrees.

The twin shadows, dressed all in black, from the top of their black hoods to their black soft-soled sneakers, stood silently beneath a large oak tree and stared at the house.

The old colonial stood in the center of a two acre parcel, well back from the road and far from its neighbors.

The shadows began to move slowly along the long, curving driveway toward the house, which was brimming with lights.

They stopped frequently to listen for sounds. There were none, and they slowly made their way to the rear of the house.

A television set blinked at them from the servants quarters. The first figure checked his watch, and knew that in five minutes, at the stroke of eleven the main lights in the house would go off.

They waited patiently, and right on schedule the lights went off, leaving only a lamp at the front door, the TV set on the ground floor, and a small light in the master bedroom.

They moved slowly and silently toward the rear door which opened easily for them as they used their set of master keys.

The rear stairway was to their left and they climbed it step by step, staying to the side so as to avoid any squeaks that might give them away.

Within minutes they were on the second floor, standing on deep pile carpeting outside the master bedroom. They waited, making certain that their entry had not been detected.

Slowly they opened the door and crept in. The room was huge, at least thirty by thirty, with a double canopied bed at one end, a fireplace and sitting area at the other.

The man was in bed, but not alone. The small light in the corner showed him with a woman, moving slowly up and down.

They stood and waited, allowing him to finish what he was doing, giving him this last chance at release.

When he was done, the man swung off the woman and lay there, panting heavily.

He was large, more than three hundred pounds. His small shock of white hair was disheveled and he breathed in and out, still reliving the final moments of his passion.

The woman was thirty years younger, a bleached blonde with hardened features and a body that most men would cry for.

She turned on her stomach as if to rid herself of the scene that had just taken place.

The two shadows now moved from the darkness and headed toward the bed—one on each side. In their hands they held silenced twenty-two caliber pistols.

The one on the right aimed and shot the woman twice in the back of the head. Brains and bone and blood flew backwards, startling the overweight man who opened his mouth to cry out.

The second man was on him, holding him down with a strong hand over his mouth, pointing the pistol at his forehead.

Listen, he said.

We have a message for you.

The fat man looked as if he were having a heart attack. His eyes bulged out, his breath was stuttering.

He peed himself.

Don Carlo warned you—more than once, but you decided to ignore his good advice. Now, you pay for it.

And he shot the fat man three times, once in the heart, once in the throat and once in the forehead.

The two men again melted into the shadows, went down the stairs and disappeared into the trees.

*     *     *

Sitting in a Howard Johnson restaurant fifty miles South of Chicago, David was digging into a stack of pancakes, Robert munched on a cheeseburger.

Killing someone always makes me so hungry, said David.

Me, too, said Robert, but let’s not overdo it, we’ve got another job next month.

*     *     *

I

David Walker and Robert Smith have lived together for the last twenty-five years. They are now middle-aged men who spend much of the year in their comfortable single-family house in Sarasota, Florida. They have been content there. Robert tends a small herb garden and David works on his ancient Jaguar XK-E, a forty year old convertible that he keeps as fine-tuned as an expensive watch.

Robert is an amateur chef, and does all the cooking for the pair. One of his passions is shopping at the local Publix, where he is known by everyone. He cooks three meals a day, many of which they eat on their small back patio.

They dine out with friends frequently and when asked, they reply that they are both retired, having made a small fortune when the stock market hit its peak. They were lucky to cash in and now sit comfortably on a nice pile of money that affords them the ability to take two or three long vacations abroad each year, and to make a number of other trips to parts of the United States.

David is more outgoing, Robert a little less so, but their many friends enjoy their company and dine often in some of the better Sarasota restaurants.

They pay their taxes on time, obey all the rules of the road, hold doors for others, men and women alike, and never flaunt their private lives. Their theory is that they are like all other couples, except they happen to be male. Outwardly, they appear simple and easygoing, make friends easily but keep to themselves whenever they find the need for solitude.

David and Robert live in a small, sheltered enclave called Capri Villas which lay between the newly-improved airport, where they could hop on a plane to anywhere at a moment’s notice and the wide, roaring traffic of I 75, which could take them all the way South to Key West, or North, connecting with 95 past Disney World and as far as Canada.

Both men are slight and unobtrusive, looking for all the world like retired school teachers. They purposefully display a quiet demeanor. It was a deception, part of their modus operandi. They spent three mornings each week at the local Y, training, lifting weights, boxing and honing their judo skills.

They look like pushovers, but they are anything but. They are hit men.

*     *     *

David and Robert had several rules that were unbreakable. One, they would never answer the telephone from noon to two, when they watched the BBC News, ate their lunch and then watched their favorite soap opera, As The World Turns. After lunch, there would be time for a short nap and then a dip in the pool.

In the evening, they would often eat dinner by candlelight, and once again turn off the telephone so as not to be disturbed. The dining room table was always set with linen and expensive flatware and silverware. They listened to the opera on their CD player and discussed the events of the day.

They were early to bed and early to rise, often getting up before dawn and waiting for the local newspaper to be delivered. They would eat their breakfast, sharing pieces of the paper, then sit for a while on their lanai watching the ever-changing mood of the large lake that sits beyond their property. Through powerful binoculars they check on the movements of migratory birds or the alligators that laze on the far bank.

They shared their home with an eleven year old female. Her name is Lady Caroline Grey, and at nine pounds she was the true mistress of the house.

Mostly, she stole quietly around the rooms, or lounged languidly in the shade of a palm tree on the lanai, waiting patiently for a wayward ghekko to come close enough to be chased.

It was an ideal life for the two men, one that satisfied them financially and emotionally. The fact that they killed people for a living never disturbed them at all, and they slept like toddlers.

*     *     *

II

*     *     *

Sol Green sat at his cluttered desk in the far corner of the squad room, shuffling stacks of files from one side to the other. As he looked at them, they seemed to grow.

Green was a forty-five year old bear of a man. He had been a homicide detective for twenty-three years, and now was relegated to little more than a paper pusher.

And it was all his fault.

An unlit cigar sat in the corner of his mouth, and thanks to the politically correct bullshit that was running rampant throughout the city, he was not allowed to light it in this building, or in any other building.

He removed the cigar from his mouth and spat a combination of saliva and cigar pieces into his wastebasket, then replaced the cigar and continued chomping on it.

He glanced at the clock—two thirty AM, and he was alone in the room, the overhead fluorescents glared down at him, the half-drunk cup of coffee sat in front of him, ignored for the past ten minutes because it was too vile to drink.

He would be here until eight AM when the day shift began drifting in. For the moment, he was in charge—of nothing. The others on the night shift, the ones who were doing real police work, were out on cases, a beating, a robbery a murder, who the fuck knew what else. He wanted to be with them, out there in the cold, shuffling around a crime scene, doing what he had done for so many years, what he did best. But he was here now, and it was all his fault.

He checked the calendar. January 4th, in the year 2008, a New Year, a new start, a new beginning. And he hated it all. And it was still his fault.

Maybe, he thought, as he shuffled through yet another Cold Case file, this year would turn out to be better than last year. It couldn’t be worse, he mused.

He sat back in the creaky swivel chair and thought about last year.

He and his wife hadn’t been getting along. She worked days at the real estate office, he worked nights, mostly, which meant that they hardly ever saw each other. She complained, he told her to shut the fuck up, it was his work, his life, and there was nothing he could, or wanted to, do about it.

Last Spring, he had the feeling that she was stepping out on him, nothing concrete, just his cops instincts, but he could never prove anything. There were no hidden notes, no suspicious phone calls, but they spent so much time away from each other, his mind began creating all kinds of scenarios.

And then, sometime in last spring, maybe May, he came home early one afternoon, and heard noises coming from the bedroom.

He stole silently through the silent apartment, eased open the door and found her naked in bed with some pasty-assed freak. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, until his presence was felt by the couple, and she opened her eyes, stared at him and screamed.

The guy, slightly paunchy and pasty white, fell off her, his dick turning limp in the process, and Sol had a slight moment of pleasure when he noted that the guys dick was much smaller than his, then he thought, but he’s fucking my wife and my dick hasn’t been near that in so long I can’t remember. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had sex, not that there weren’t opportunities, the job had certain perks attached to it, hookers looking for a break were always willing to trade a little sex, but he had never been tempted, so he had stayed mostly celibate, working his cases, burying himself in the work.

His wife sat up, her pendulous breasts juggling as she did so. What are you doing here? she asked.

Sol smiled at her. I live here, in case you forgot.

The guy was now busily looking for his clothes, reaching down to the floor for his underwear and pants which had been deposited there hastily.

His wife started to cover herself with the sheet and he laughed. Too late, he said, I seen it all.

The man, who Sol now recognized as their accountant, and was startled to realize that, sat on the side of the bed, pulling on his pants.

Look, he started to say.

Shut the fuck up, said Sol. Maybe I should just shoot the two of you now and save us all a lot of trouble.

The man turned paler.

Sol laughed again. Just kidding, he said, get dressed and we’ll talk about it.

He turned and went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He could hear them whispering to each other rapidly and smiled to himself again.

Before long, as he was taking cups out of the cupboard, they came out of the bedroom, making certain to stay away from each other.

Sol put down the cups, poured coffee into them and sat in his usual seat at the kitchen table.

Sit, he said.

They sat.

He sipped at his coffee, amused that they were both sitting ramrod straight in their chairs.

So now what? he asked.

I think I want a divorce, she said.

No shit. I wonder why?

Well, you’re never here…

Yeah, he interrupted, I get it, you’ve been sneaking around with this wimp for how long? I don’t really care. Yeah, you can have a divorce, we spit everything we got, and he can have you, you fuckin’ cunt."

Listen, said the man, whose name was Dante Pelligrino, you can’t…

Shut up you putz, don’t tell me what I can or can’t do in my own house when I come home and find you fucking my wife. Don’t piss me off or maybe I’ll change my mind about shooting you.

He shut up.

Here’s the deal, said Sol as he sipped at his coffee again.

I’ll pack some stuff and get out of here, and you two can go back to fucking. Get a lawyer, and don’t try to pull any fast stuff on me. Make it simple and easy and I won’t contest anything. He finished his coffee, went into the bedroom, packed some clothes in a bag and went back into the kitchen.

They hadn’t moved, hadn’t drunk their coffee. They were still sitting where he had left them.

I’ll call and let you know where I am and you can tell me who the lawyer is. I want to have a talk with him before we settle anything.

He stared at them for a moment, then left the apartment.

*     *     *

He had found a cheap hotel on the West Side, which offered special rates to cops, hauled his bag into the room, looked around at the worn carpeting, the cigarette burned furniture and laughed out loud.

It hadn’t taken long. By midsummer they had been divorced, settled all their bills, shared whatever was left over, and for the first time in nineteen years (had it really been that long?) he was a free man.

He settled in to his cheap motel room and thought about looking for a more permanent place, but he was so busy he kept pushing it to the back of his mind.

While all that was happening, he began to have problems at work. His Lieutenant left and a new guy came in to take over, began instituting new rules, more paperwork, kept pushing the squad, harassing them, kept telling them that they were a bunch of losers and that they had better start working harder. Sol knew that they were shorthanded and were all working as hard as they could. It never satisfied the Lieutenant, and they had exchanged harsh words on more than one occasion. The others in his squad just mumbled to each other, but would never confront the bastard.

The animosity kept escalating, and in early November, Sol couldn’t handle it any more and called the Lieutenant a fucking moron.

He was suspended for two weeks, without pay.

When he returned, the Lieutenant called him into his office and asked if he had learned his lesson.

Sol stared him down.

One thing I would like.

The Lieutenant leaned back in his chair and smiled, yeah, what’s that.

"I’d like to kick the shit out of you, but you’re such a woos you sit behind those Lieutenants bars.

The Lieutenant glared at him. He had been a Green Beret, had been a Golden Gloves boxer, had kept in good shape, and figured he could take this blowhard.

Okay, he said, you and me, after work, in the alley.

Sol turned and left and after work waited in the alley.

The Lieutenant appeared, dressed in civilian clothes, striding purposefully toward him.

As he neared, Sol let go with a haymaker that landed on his chin. The Lieutenant went down. Sol stepped in and kicked him three times in the side, fracturing at least two ribs. Then he bent down and picked him up and smacked him again.

The Lieutenant went down, lying sprawled on his side, moaning softly.

They had an audience. Four or five off-duty cops had gathered to see the confrontation, stepped aside as Sol left the alley, then went to the aid of their stricken Lieutenant.

They called 9-1-1, handed him off to the paramedics, then went to their local bar and spread the good news.

Except it wasn’t really good news for Sol.

The Lieutenant was at fault for inciting one of his detectives, and was demoted and sent to a post on Staten Island. Sol was brought before an ad hoc revue board. None of this was going on anyone’s record, the NYPD didn’t like to make waves. Sol was hollered at, screamed at, castigated, threatened, and it was suggested that he retire.

Fuck that, he said in defiance, I ain’t gonna retire.

You’ll never get promoted, was one reply.

Don’t care.

Right now, you’re on suspension again.

For how long? he asked.

We’ll let you know.

Sol had a Rabbi, a Deputy Chief he had known since childhood. The man called him, told him what an asshole he was, then told him that he wouldn’t be fired (Sol knew this, he knew that his Union attorney would blow this episode into a front-page story in the New York Post), but he would have to move to another precinct and that he should try to hold in his temper because there were only so many favors he could call in.

Sol thanked him, then went back to work.

And that was 2007.

They had transferred him to a precinct in far-off Brooklyn, which was okay with him, and before he left, he was pleased to see the thumbs up and high-fives he got from the other cops.

When he reported for duty at his new station, just two days ago now, his new Lieutenant called him in and told him that he would be sitting in the office for the time being, that his job was to sort through the Cold Case files to see if he could do anything about them.

Sol almost started to object, wanted to tell the new Lieutenant that his talents would be wasted, that he was one of the best homicide detectives on the NYPD and had medals and certificates to prove it.

But he said nothing.

I’ll do whatever you want me to do, he said.

Good, said the Lieutenant. You work midnight to eight, every day, and we’ll see how things turn out.

Sol thanked him, hoping that there might be an opening somewhere down the line.

The truth was that he really loved his job, and if he had to remain in this Siberia for six months or a year, he could handle it. He wanted back out on the street, but he knew better than to push it.

So he tried to buckle down at what would ultimately prove to be the most boring job in the world.

*     *     *

When Sol finally realized that he wouldn’t be fired, he decided to do something about his living accommodations. The tiny room he had been renting was literally that—tiny. Shortly after Christmas he went looking and found a nice one bedroom apartment in a really ratty neighborhood near Coney Island. The building was kept in fairly good order, he met the super, a young guy named Sanchez who lived on the first floor with his wife and his four kids.

When he moved his sparse belongings in at the end of December, he removed his jacket to carry in a large carton. Sanchez saw the gun and almost freaked, until Sol told him he was a cop, then Sanchez was all smiles.

That’s great, he said, now I feel a lot better.

Sol was parsimonious by nature, and without the spendthrift habits of his ex wife, and not being a drinker or womanizer or with any really bad habits (except for the stogies), he knew he could live comfortably. The one extravagance he allowed himself (after filling the apartment with cheap furniture from Rooms To Go,) was to buy a large flat screen television set on which he could watch all the football and basketball and baseball he wanted. He was done with all of that just in time to report to his new command.

He felt that it all would be a new beginning. New Year, still with the job, no wife. It would be pleasant, he figured.

*     *     *

When he left the police station a little after eight, he decided to have breakfast. The little joint around the corner was a hangout for most of the cops going on or off duty, and he sat over coffee and eggs, listening to the rumble of cop talk, chatting with a few of the guys he knew, idling away the time. When he was done he took out a fresh cigar, lit it in the alcove of the restaurant and went out into the biting cold of a frosty January morning.

He was well-insulated, liked the cold as a matter of fact, and figured he would walk the twenty-five blocks to his apartment. He felt logy after sitting at his desk all night, and decided the walk would do him good, and he could smoke his cigar to his heart’s content, at least until Bloomberg made smoking on the city streets a capitol offense.

He liked the Mayor, thought he had done a decent job running the city after Giuliani, but some of the things he had passed were downright annoying.

He walked briskly, puffing away, stepping around the early morning traffic, heading South and West.

By the time he reached his apartment house, the cigar was a tiny butt stuck in the corner of his mouth, and it was close to eleven AM. Perfect, he thought, just in time for a nice sleep.

He entered the vestibule, rode the elevator up four flights to his apartment and took out his key.

He heard the sounds of a television set, noticed that his door was slightly ajar.

He removed his shoes and left them in the hall, took out his forty-five from the shoulder bolster, and quietly opened the door.

The TV was on, and there were two bodies sitting in front of it watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Next to their chairs were stacks of his stuff, all ready to be carted away.

He moved silently into the room, slipped behind them and sat in an overstuffed chair.

The two mooks, one white, one black, one tall and skinny, one short and fat, were laughing to beat the band.

Sol slid the gun alongside his leg, then said out loud: Hey. The two guys literally jumped out of their chairs.

They turned to see him sitting behind them, lolling comfortably in his seat.

What the fuck?

Hey guys, what’s happening?

Who the fuck are you?

Just the guy who lives here. Who might you be?

We gonna kick your ass motherfucker. And they started to move toward him.

Sol grinned, raised the forty-five and clicked back the hammer.

What was that again?

They stopped. Stood stock still.

Hey man, we’ll just go, no harm, okay, we was just gettin’ warm, you know?

No, I don’t know. What are you doing with my stuff?

We’s cold and hungry, man, just needed some quick dough.

Sol smiled again.

So you were robbing me?

Naw, man, it weren’t like that.

I know, said Sol, this is all a big joke, right?

Yeah, man, said the tall one, as he began sidling toward the door.

You take one more step you ass wipe and I’ll drill you right between the eyes.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his gold detective’s badge.

I guess you picked the wrong place to rob.

Their eyes bulged.

Okay, he said, here’s the drill. I want you both to take off all your clothes.

What?

Now, said Sol, waving the gun menacingly.

Why?

Because I said so, so don’t piss me off any more than you already have.

Slowly they began to disrobe, tossing their clothes onto the floor. When they were completely naked, Sol sat there looking at them as they attempted to cover themselves with their hands.

Okay, he said, here’s the thing. I live here now, so this apartment, and this entire building is off limits. You make certain to tell all your friends about it. I work odd hours, so you’ll never know when I’m here and when I’m out. But it doesn’t matter, if anyone in this building gets robbed I’m gonna come looking for you two, but I won’t arrest you, I will take care of the matter myself.

He stared at them hard now, with his steely cops eyes.

Do you understand me?

Yessir, they said in unison.

You. the tall one, go and open that window over there.

The man hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then went to the window and opened it.

It had started to snow, hard, pellet-like snow that Sol knew would sting on their bodies.

What do you see out there?

A fire escape.

Good. Now, both of you, climb out the window and go down the fire escape.

They shrank.

Like this? Naked?

Right.

But, man.

No buts, do it now or I’ll change my mind about a lot of things.

They looked at each other, went to the window and climbed out. Sol followed, watched as they climbed down slowly, the metal rungs searingly cold on their bare feet, the ice pellets stinging their naked bodies. He chuckled, as they hip-hopped down the alley, not looking back, turning the corner and obviously looking for some place to hide.

Sol closed the window, turned off the television and went into his bedroom for a well-earned rest.

###

III

Antonio Biggio was furious. For the third time in less than two months he had to undergo a dressing down by the other bosses.

They were all supposed to be equal, but for some reason, they had a hardon about him and the way he conducted his business. Well, fuck them, he thought, as he sat in the rear of the black caddy SUV as it headed across the bridge back to Brooklyn, to Gravesend, where he had his headquarters.

It was totally humiliating, having to make that trip into Manhattan, and then to sit and be stared at by those other five fucks, who should all be dead, they were so old.

Biggio fumed, then unwrapped a cigar and sat there, blowing smoke.

His driver, Tommy nuts and his bodyguard, sally black never said a word. They had seen the boss in this kind of mood often, and were smart enough to say nothing. Not that they could have said anything, anyway. They were soldiers, they did what they were told, waited for orders, carried them out, picked up their pay, that was it. They were both made men, and so knew everything there was to know about killing and beating and stealing, but they didn’t know, and didn’t understand the workings of the higher-ups, the bosses.

Biggio could not seem to calm down. Usually, a good cigar, especially this fat one, a cohiba from Cuba, always made him feel better, as if he were screwing with the government by smoking a forbidden cigar, which he had by the thousands in his house, brought in by wise guys who made the trip to Cuba on the sly and managed to bribe people so they could bring stuff back. He cared nothing for that right now, his mind was still occupied by the tongue lashing he had taken in that dirty back room at the stupid old social club, as if that would scare anyone.

They told him that his methods were too rude, that he was making problems for all of them, that he should behave himself, that he was too young to be a boss and maybe they had made a mistake elevating him to that illustrious position. They almost accused him of holding back on their percentages, which of course was true but he would never admit it.

They told him that he was moving too fast, that he should be more patient, that he could become a truly wealthy man if only he would learn to control himself and control his men.

He sat on the edge of the wooden kitchen chair they gave him, and listened to all they had to say. At several points he wanted to say fuck all of you, you dont tell me what to do, but he didnt do that. He also wanted to take out his gun and shoot all these peons in the eye, but he couldnt do that either because he knew better than to take a gun into this exalted circle. He also knew that if he had been able to sneak a gun there, he would be mincemeat in a matter of seconds. These old men were nothing if not cautious. They had bodyguards and bodyguards watching the bodyguards. They were smart, had to be to have lasted all these years, but they were not as smart as they thought they were. Biggio knew he was smarter, had better instincts, had been given a territory that had been going downhill for years and was beginning to turn it around. His take was growing and the money he sent up the ladder was growing, but not fast enough for these greedy wop bastards. What did they know? They all sat on their fat asses and took the money and didn’t do anything anymore.

Inside, he fumed and spit and shrieked, but his outside demeanor was cool and calm and detached, and he seemed to take the suggestions, hints, threats, with equanimity.

Finally, it was over, and they all toasted each other with shots of grappa, smiled and joked, all the while Biggio was still steaming inside.

He had promised that he would mend his ways, that he wasnt aware that there might be hard feelings, that he would consult with them more often, that he would do things the right way.

Finally, he was dismissed, not in so many words, but dismissed anyway. He was supposed to be equal to them, but they all knew that he wasnt, that he was still being tested. After all, they had told him more than once, he was the youngest man ever to make boss and he had a lot to prove to them.

He knew that to be true, knew that they had selected him because not only was there no one else who could command the men the way he did, but that over the years he had done whatever he had been asked to do. His personal hit list amounted to an even dozen, more than the others had accounted for, and that had impressed them he had been a ruthless soldier, and a button man par excellance. He had only one arrest on his record and that was for a bullshit thing that went away almost immediately. He had done six months for it, and had come out stronger, more resolute and more ruthless.

take me to Coney island he barked at the guys in the front seat, and they stole a quick glance at each other. They knew what that meant. He wanted to visit his comadre, the woman who was his mistress, the one he went to whenever he was feeling upset, or disenchanted, or was on a high from something that had gone especially well.

She was a tall, buxom redhead, certainly not Italian, but that didnt matter. She fulfilled all his animalistic needs, and it was said, quietly of course, that she gave the absolute best blowjobs in the world.

Biggio had a wife, and three children, all of whom were bliss fully ignorant of what he really did, except that his wife knew but continued the fiction that he was well respected importer, of what she was uncertain, but she knew that whatever he did, he made them a good home, a three story monstrosity on avenue s, on the corner, with a closed circuit TV system, and hard men who patrolled constantly.

His kids went to the best private schools, and he lavished gifts on his wife, who took it all as her due. Of course she knew about the mistress, how could she not, but she pretended that the woman didn’t exist.

Biggio had set the woman up in a one bedroom apartment just off the boardwalk with a killer view of the Atlantic ocean, the only proviso being that she be available twenty four seven to accommodate his every need.

To that end, he gave her spending money, paid the rent, bought her clothes and furs, and took her out once a week, without fail, to nightclubs and restaurants.

The sad truth was that Gloria, whose real name was Gladys Bernstein, really hated Biggio. Behind his back, and only to intimates, she called him that big, fat, greaseball.

She would often sit at her picture window and stare at the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and wonder how she got where she was.

*     *     *

IV

Gladys Bernstein grew up in an affluent section of Darien, Connecticut. She was the only child of two overachieving lawyers, who worked long hours and hardly had time for their child.

From her birth to her twelfth year, she was raised by a series of nanny’s, most of whom were loving and caring and took good care of her, seeing her off to school in the morning, waiting for her in the afternoon, checking her homework, and fixing dinner and reading her stories before bed.

Her parents were hardly there, and whatever time they didn’t put into their law practice, they spent at the country club in an attempt to scale the lofty social ladder.

Gladys was a lonely child, but managed to cope. Her parents treated her as an adult from the first day she was born, explaining that they wanted their child to be able to make it in this increasingly difficult world, and that if she were allowed to solve her own problems, it would make her stronger and smarter.

When she was twelve, they decided that she was now old enough to fend for herself, she was entering middle school, and so they let the latest nanny go, gave her a house key and told her that now that she was almost an adult, she could see to her own welfare.

Gladys was a small child, overweight, quiet and unassuming. She had two things going for her: her bright red hair (and where that came from, I’ll never know, her mother said), and her singing voice. She was quite good, not outstanding, but good enough so that Mrs. Kelly. The choir master, singled her out to perform a solo, and then took her aside and said that she would benefit from singing lessons.

Her parents disagreed. no, they said, almost in unison, it’s a waste of money and Gladys needs to spend time at her studies.

The choir master also suggested to Gladys that she try out for the school musicals. Gladys declined, knowing full well that her parents wouldn’t approve of that, either.

She came home each afternoon to an empty house, fixed herself a snack, did her homework, watched television, made dinner for herself and was usually in bed by the time her parents came home.

She hardly saw them, but that was okay too because Gladys knew they had nothing in common anyway.

And then things changed.

When Gladys was fifteen, the summer before entering her sophomore year in high school, the world tilted on its axis for her. Up to that point she had been an overweight, shy, unattractive (except for the red hair) little girl who had not yet achieved puberty. That summer, the swan arrived, replacing the ugly duckling with a vengeance.

She grew three inches, lost weight, and grew breasts and other tempting female accoutrements.

It was as if Cinderella’s fairy godmother had come along, waved her magic wand, and transformed her from a child, into a full* blown woman.

And she loved every moment of it.

Her parents were hardly aware of the changes in their daughter until one weekend Gladys approached her mother and told her that she needed them to go shopping.

what on earth for? Asked her mother.

I need a bra, she said.

Her mother, as if for the first time, looked at her newly changed daughter.

yes, she said, I guess you do.

They went shopping. One of the first times that Gladys could remember the two of them together in a department store.

They bought underwear and a load of new clothes, more appropriate for a growing teenager than the simple smocks and skirts she had been wearing.

Her mother was astounded at the transformation in her daughter, and had only one word of caution: be careful, she said, without explaining what she meant.

That night, Gladys found a sex manual sitting on her bed. It explained everything there was to know about the changes in her body, and what she should avoid, especially the part about getting pregnant.

That fall, a new Gladys Bernstein started school. Her new look had brightened her self esteem, and from the moment she walked through the high school doors, she was the center of attention. The girls stared, the boys practically fell over themselves at this striking new person who had emerged from a cocoon of nothingness.

The girls wanted to be her best friend. The boys wanted to date her.

She remained aloof, friendly, but aloof. She allowed some of the girls to eat lunch with her, exchange homework, and gave the thirsting male population nothing but the new slinky walk she had acquired.

Mrs. Kelly, the choir master recognized the new Gladys, and this time when she suggested that Gladys try out for the school musical, the answer was a resounding yes.

She auditioned for a part in guys and dolls, and to her surprise, was chosen to play the female lead—the missionary Sarah brown, opposite Sam Grady, who would be Sky Masterson.

Grady, who was every coeds dreamboat, a senior with classic good looks, took one look at Gladys and told himself that he would be in her pants before the show ended.

He was so certain of himself, that he made bets with his friends to that effect.

He was mistaken.

Gladys managed to play her role perfectly, and everyone thought they saw chemistry between the two leads, but when the play was over and Grady asked her out, she turned him down.

Flat.

Like his ego that night.

As the school year passed, other guys hit on her, asked her out on dates, begged, pleaded, called her on the telephone, ran into her after school, did anything they could think of to get her attention.

She was heedless.

Not that she didn’t realize that sooner or later she would have to plunge into a sexual relationship. But she vowed that it would be on her terms, which she alone would dictate.

After the Christmas holidays, when everyone returned to school for the spring term, Gladys decided that now was the right time. She would be sixteen in a few months and figured she was now old enough to sustain a sexual relationship. But who would be the guy?

She kept her eyes open in class, in the hallways, immediately rejecting that asshole Sam Grady, who kept pestering her. She also crossed off all the guys who hung with him—they were nothing but clones of his and all had the same wham * bam * thank you maam attitude about sex. She had learned enough from her new friends about that bunch.

There were other cliques, and she started eyeing them, then decided that wouldn’t be a good idea, either. If you had sex with one, they all figured you were easy meat, and you would have to sleep with all of them.

That left a slim percentage of eligible male students.

But one stood out.

His name was Alex Everhardt, he was smart, quiet, kept to himself most of the time, didn’t belong to any cliques, wasn’t a big time jock (although he did function as the football manager, which meant gathering the equipment after games and running on the field with the water bucket during games.)

He was one of the brighter kids in school, one year ahead of her, and wasn’t bad looking. He didn’t have the outstanding features or physique of a Grady, but he was built okay, if a bit thin.

She started tracking him, and when she tried for, and was given the lead (again) in the spring production of bye, bye, birdie, she was thrilled to hear that Alex would be functioning as the stage manager, which meant that she would be in close contact with him on a daily basis.

She began planning her campaign.

*     *     *

It had all worked according to plan. Now, as she lay in her bed, the morning after, she had to congratulate herself. She had worked out her plan, had snared Alex, and kept at him for the three weeks of rehearsal, so that on the night of the play, he had taken her in his car and had made love to her.

She liked it.

No, she loved it.

This was going to be the start of a new life for her. She and Alex would continue seeing each other, they would have sex on a regular basis (she knew that guys needed it more than girls), and they would take the relationship to whatever point it went. She never even though about marriage * that was totally out of the question.

And then things changed again.

When she went back to school after the weekend, she looked in vain for Alex. He was nowhere to be found. She thought, perhaps, that he was sick, and asked several of the others in her class if they had seen him.

Noone had seen him.

He was gone.

Gladys learned later that he was so overcome with guilt about their tryst t at he confessed everything to his parents, who were devoutly religious. Instantly, they had transferred him out of the school and had sent him away to live with his uncle. They were aghast at what happened, and wanted to take him away from that temptation.

Gladys would never see him again.

She went through the motions during her last two years in high school. Did just enough studying