"Do most of the women in the — uh — family feel that way?"
"No. Most of them never think about it. They don't allow themselves to think about it. They were taught not to when they were little girls. It's the old Sicilian way: What the men do is no business of the women."
"But you were different?"
She nodded grimly. "I became fascinated by it. I found it repulsive, but I couldn't stay away from it. I read everything I could find in the library about the Mafia, the organization, the whole thing.
"That's why I stayed, and why I went to the FBI. Family ties. My father. Uncle Joe killed my father! Did you know that? He actually killed his own brother! My father."
"Do you know that for sure?"
She shook her head. "Not really, but once I read about the things that happened when I was three — I guess I was in high school at that time — I just knew it was true. It's something Uncle Joe would do, I just know it. And looking back, I'm sure my mother thought so, too. She only moved in with Uncle Joe because he forced her."
I stood up again and moved so that I could pull her head against my stomach. "You're quite a girl," I said softly. "Let's go back to bed."
She looked up and smiled, her eyes glistening. "Okay," she whispered. Then she managed a giggle. "I have to be in the office in a few hours."
"I won't waste any time," I promised.
Not taking her eyes from me, she stood up and loosened her belt so that the blue bathrobe fell open. I pressed her to me, my hands inside the open robe and against her body, stroking it slowly, exploring it. I lifted one breast and kissed the tightened nipple, then the other.
She groaned and rammed both hands down the front of my pants, grasping at me frantically but gently. I jerked in ecstasy, and in moments we were on the floor, writhing with passion.
Her lovemaking was as good as her coffee was bad.
After Philomina went to work that morning, I lazed around for a few hours, showered, dressed, then walked the two blocks down Twenty-third Street to the Chelsea. There was a note in my mail slot: Call Mr. Franzini.
There was also a wary look in the room clerk's eye. There aren't that many Franzinis around New York these days.
I thanked the clerk and went up to my room, looked the number up in the book and dialed.
Philomina answered. "Franzini Olive Oil."
"Hi."
"Oh, Nick," she breathed into the phone.
"What's up, honey?"
"Oh… oh, Mr. Canzoneri." Her voice was suddenly briskly efficient. Someone must have come into the office. "Yes," she went on. "Mr. Franzini would like to see you at two o'clock this afternoon."
"Well," I said, "at least it will give me a chance to see you."
"Yes, sir," she said briskly.
"You know I'm crazy about you,"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"Yes, sir."
"…and then I'll take you home to bed."
"Yes, sir."
"…and make love to you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She hung up.
I grinned all the way down on the elevator. I smiled at the room clerk, which seemed to make him nervous. He had «made» me as an Organization hood and he wasn't a bit comfortable with the idea.
I went around the corner to the Angry Squire for brunch after picking up a copy of the News at the newsstand on the corner of Seventh Avenue.
The mysterious disappearance of Larry Spelman, reputed lieutenant to Mafia chief Joseph «Popeye» Franzini, may be the opening round of a new gang war here, according to Police Captain Hobby Miller.
Miller, in charge of the Department's Special Section for Organized Crime, said in an interview today that Spelman, Franzini's constant companion and bodyguard, had been missing from his usual haunts since the beginning of the week.
Captain Miller, according to the story, said rumors were rife in the underworld that Spelman had either been murdered, and his body disposed of, or had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom by the family headed by Gaetano Ruggiero.
Jack Gourlay had done a beautiful job.
I finished my brunch leisurely, basking in warm memories of Philomina and the thought that things were really going pretty well, as improbable as it had seemed when I first started.
I arrived at the Franzini Olive Oil Company offices promptly at two o'clock. Manitti and Locallo were there ahead of me, uncomfortable on the modern chairs. I smiled at Philomina when she ushered us into Popeye's office. She blushed, but avoided my eyes.
Today, Popeye looked a little older and a little fatter. The party the night before showed. Or perhaps it was the effect of Gourlay's story. A copy of the News lay on Franzini's desk. Leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, Louie looked nervous as the three of us arranged ourselves in front of his uncle's desk.
Popeye glowered at us, the hatred in his soul seething in his eyes.
He's upset about Spelman, I thought gleefully, but I was wrong.
"You, Locallo!" he barked.
"Yes, sir." The hood looked scared.
"Which one of you guys was the last one to see that Chinese broad, Su Lao Lin, in Beirut?"
Locallo spread his hands helplessly. "I dunno. Me and Manitti, we left together."
"I think it was Canzoneri here," Louie piped up, gesturing in my direction. "I left him there when I took Harold to the hospital." He glanced at me with a I-have-to-tell-the-truth look.
"Were you the last one there?" Popeye snapped.
I shrugged. "I don't know. I talked to her for a few minutes after Louie left, then she sent me over to see that guy Harkins, the penman."
"Do you know if she was expecting anyone after you left?"
I shook my head.
His eyes narrowed in thought, looking at me. "Hmmmm! You musta been the last one to see Harkins, too."
He was getting too close for comfort, although I didn't really sense that I was in a lot of trouble at the moment. "No," I said innocently, "there was that other guy there. Came in right before I left. But, wait!" I feigned a look of sudden recollection. "I think he was the same guy I saw hanging around in the lobby of Miss Lin's hotel when I left." I pressed my fingers to my forehead. "Yeah, the same guy."
Popeye sat up straight, pounding a fist onto the desktop. "What guy?"
"Hell, I don't know if I remember. Let's see… Harkins introduced me. Fuggi, I think, or something like that… Fuggiero… I don't remember exactly."
"Ruggiero?" He fairly shot the words at me.
I snapped my fingers. "Yeah. That's it. Ruggiero."
"Goddamn! What was his first name?"
I shrugged. "Gee, I don't know. Bill, maybe, or Joe, or something like that."
"And you say you saw him in the hotel?"
I spread my hands, palms up. "Yeah. He was in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, when I came out. I remember now, I recognized him later when he came into Harkins' place."
"What did he look like?"
"You know, kind of average. He was dark…" I pretended to concentrate, frowning thoughtfully. I might as well make it good while I was at it. "I guess about five-foot-ten, kind of dark skin. Oh yeah, I remember. He was wearing a dark blue suit."
Popeye shook his head. "He don't sound familiar, but there's so many goddamned Ruggieros, it's hard to tell." He slammed his fist on the desktop again, then spun his wheelchair so he was looking directly at Louie. "That Chinese broad say anything about the Ruggieros to you?"
Louie shook his head. "No, sir, not a word." He hesitated. "What happened, Uncle Joe?"
Popeye glared at him in a fury. "They got blown up! That's what happened! Some son of a bitch went in there just after you guys took off and blew the goddamned place up. A bomb, for Chrissake! Vinnie just called from Beirut. He says it's all over the papers there."