The crazy hold that greed exerts on you. The sudden reluctance to share, fifty-fifty, what you promised and shook on. Christos no longer wanted to part with half the loot. Shit, no. Not on a jackpot this size.
'Oh, she's got plenty,' he said vaguely, deciding there was no need for a full disclosure. With luck, he'd be able to fob Amber off with a couple of grand. That would get her out of his hair. And, more importantly, out of his life.
The sooner she was history, the better. Especially now that small-time hustles and penny-ante rip-offs were a thing of the past.
Christos was amazed at the way his view of the future had changed. For the first time in his life he had plans. Major plans. And they didn't include two women.
No, ma'am. Where he was headed, there was room for only one.
He thought of her now. Gloria Winslow. Mrs. Hunt Netherland Winslow.
He'd suspected from the start that she was wealthy, true. And after checking out the property deed and the house, it became clear that the Winslows were more than merely wealthy—they were rich.
However, it was after his spur-of-the-moment inspiration—his visit to the public library where he'd leafed through the last issue of the Forbes Four Hundred—that it became clear just how filthy dirty rich the Netherland Winslows of San Francisco really were.
The discovery had blown his mind.
Two billion smackeroos and counting. He wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told him. But there it had been, in black and white.
And Gloria . . . Glo . . . the lush he had honored with the pleasure of his cock, was married to the sole heir, the crown prince, the golden boy of California politics.
Christos, whose mama hadn't raised a fool, recognized the chance of a lifetime when he saw it. He also knew better than to fuck it up. But he'd have to proceed slowly, carefully. Feel his way inch by cautious inch and play his cards just right.
This wasn't the kind of score where you got a second chance.
But Amber was a definite liability. Trouble was, for the time being he needed the extra cash her topless dancing brought in.
'Babe?' He tossed his trousers on the wet heap and stood there, naked as a jaybird. Looking good and knowing it. 'We got a dry towel anywhere?'
His nudity had the desired effect. She took one last puff off her cigarette, squashed it in the foil ashtray, and hurried to fetch one.
When she returned, he reached out to take it, but Amber shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'Lemme dry you off.'
She began by toweling off his moist broad back, then working her way around to the front. Her fingers were light and quick, and she found the male scent of him intoxicating; it rose pungently from his glistening wet skin.
'Oh, hon' bunch!' she sighed, wrapping towel and arms tightly around him. She rested her face sideways against his chest. Beneath the layer of densely packed muscle she could feel and hear the healthy beat of his heart. 'You don't know how worried you had me,' she whispered. 'Sometimes I get so scared!'
'Scared!' He laughed soundlessly. 'For chrissake, why?'
Amber gazed up at him, her seaweed green eyes wide with fear. 'What if . . . if something were to happen to you?' He could feel her shivering. 'I don't know what I'd do then!'
'Shit, babe. You're not exactly helpless. Y'always got your dancin' to fall back on. Besides, what could happen to me?' He flashed her a cocky grin. 'I know how to take care of myself.'
'Yeah, but what if—'
He silenced her by kissing her lips in midsentence.
Amber purred and wriggled closer, her bony hips grinding against his.
Whammo! The reaction from the old flagpole was immediate, but sex was out of the question. He had to save his energies for Gloria Winslow.
He attempted to disengage himself from Amber, but she kept clinging to him.
'Hon' bunch, please?' she pleaded. 'Pretty please?'
'Unh-unh, babe,' he said. 'Not now.' He flashed her his best smile. 'Magic Man's got to get movin', go work some of his magic.'
Amber tightened her grip on him and plastered herself even closer.
'Why don't you work some of that magic on me?' she crooned softly, running the tip of her tongue across his nipple. 'I'll prime your pump for ya. That way you won't have any trouble gettin' it up for that ugly ole hag.'
He took exception to that. He never had trouble getting it up— although there were times he wished he did. It would certainly simplify his life.
'Later,' he told her. 'After I'm back.'
'Please?' Clever fingers walked spiderlike down his chest to his flat washboard and then gripped hold of his hard-on. Slowly she peeled back his foreskin. 'Just a quickie?'
He stood very still, then gently pushed her away. 'First work,' he said softly. 'Then play.'
She sighed. 'It's not 'cause you're still angry with me, is it?' She looked up and held his gaze.
'Angry?' He forced a laugh. 'Why should I be angry?'
'I dunno.' She shrugged. 'But you weren't exactly in the best mood when you walked in.'
'That's only 'cause I got caught in the downpour,' he lied.
'That's all it was?'
'Wouldn't I tell you if it weren't?'
She was suddenly all smiles. 'I'm so glad!' She hugged him again. 'Oh, God, hon' bunch!' she whispered. 'If you only knew how much I love you!'
He looked out over her head, to the dirty window at the far end of the room, and some invisible point beyond. 'Yeah, babe,' he replied absentmindedly. 'Me too.'
Then he slapped her playfully on the rump.
'Now why don't you scare up some dry clothes for me, huh? I gotta make a good impression. An' hurry. I'm runnin' late.'
Convinced that all was well, she gave his lips a quick peck and happily went about assembling his wardrobe.
Watching her, her wondered what Amber would think if he told her that Gloria was neither ugly, old, nor a hag.
Better she doesn't find out, he thought pleasurably. For a slightly mature woman, that Gloria Winslow is one fine piece of ass.
He and Gloria. It wouldn't be long before they'd be tumbling into bed.
Christos could hardly wait.
19
In front of Mama Rosa's, a double-parked black stretch Caddie with blacked-out windows blocked the No Parking zone by the fire hydrant.
Problema? Not for Sonny Fong. He welcomed the opportunity to flex his automotive muscle.
Shifting into reverse, he jammed the accelerator to the floor and twisted the heel.
With a squeal of burning rubber, the Lexus swung behind the Caddie in a single, artfully executed maneuver. Then, accurately gauging the distance between his front bumper and the limo's rear, Sonny shifted into drive, shot forward, and slammed on the brakes.
The Lexus screeched to a halt with a fraction of an inch to spare.
Both front doors of the limo burst open. A beefy driver jumped out one side, a just-as-beefy bodyguard out the other. Both were armed and rushed the Lexus, rapping on the side windows with the barrels of their Uzis.
Sonny Fong was unfazed. He was Mr. Cool. Uzis or no, he wasn't about to be hurried.
He switched on the interior lights. He squirted Binaca in his mouth. He craned his neck to check out his tie in the rearview mirror, eyed his hair critically, and glanced at his gold Rolex.
His breath was minty fresh, his Windsor knot perfectly tied, his blow- dried hair required just a run-through with his fingers, and he was fifteen minutes early. Only then did he open his door and get out.
'Whatcha got, a death wish?' yelled the limo driver, poking the barrel of his Uzi into Sonny Fong's chest.
'Yeah, ya got any idea whose limo this here is?' growled the body-guard, coming around the back of the Lexus and taking up a threatening stance beside the driver.
Sonny yawned and gave them a bored look—letting them see just how unimpressed Mr. Cool was. 'You may put the hardware away, gentlemen,' he said politely. 'That way, no one will get hurt.'
'Get 'em up, ya f
uckin' gook!' snarled the bodyguard.
Wearily Sonny raised both hands in surrender. Then, as if something had caught his attention, he flicked his eyes in the direction of the restaurant's awning.
Both goons fell for it and shifted their gaze.
A major mistake. Sonny's hands chopped down straight and true.
Both men's shoulder blades cracked noisily under the impact and they fell grunting to their knees. They were still struggling to lift their weapons when Sonny jabbed the nerves inside their elbows.
Their gun arms went dead.
Relieving them of the Uzis was like taking candy from a baby. Sonny grasped each weapon by the barrel and swung the stock ends, swiping each man across the side of the head.
They fell face-flat in tandem, lights out.
Sonny tossed the weapons on top of them, unfolded a perfectly pressed handkerchief, and wiped his hands as he headed for the restaurant.
A small shadow detached itself from a nearby doorway. 'Cool!' a young voice said admiringly. 'You're one bad dude, mister!'
Sonny glanced at him. It was the same urchin who had guarded his car yesterday.
'Watch my wheels,' he said, a folded twenty appearing magically between his index and middle fingers.
'Sure, mister.' The kid eyed it warily, then stepped forward and quickly fished it from Sonny's fingers. He said, 'Ain't ya gonna tear it in half?'
Sonny glanced pointedly over his shoulder, then looked at the kid without expression. 'I don't think there's any need for that,' he said softly. 'Do you?'
'No, sir!'
'I didn't think so.'
And with that, Sonny descended the steps and entered the bizarre, semi-churchly atmosphere of Mama Rosa's.
First thing he did, he cased the joint.
Except for a single booth near the front, the rabbit warren of low- ceilinged, interconnected arches was empty of diners. Sonny glanced at the men occupying the nearby booth. There were four of them, and all wore custom-tailored suits and had 'mob' written all over them.
Two hulks, also in suits, hovered close by. It didn't take a rocket scientist to make them for bodyguards, especially with their too-tight jackets showing the outlines of their shoulder holsters.
'Hey,' the bartender growled. 'The restaurant's—'
Sonny turned and silenced him with a look. 'I've got an appointment to see Mama Roma,' he said quietly. 'So why don't you let her know I'm here?'
'Oh. You're the guy.'
Appeased, the bartender looked around and snapped his fingers. Presently the ancient waiter Sonny remembered from the previous day came shuffling over.
The bartender said: 'Tell Mama she's got a visitor. Pronto.'
Wordlessly the waiter limped off toward the back.
Sonny sauntered to the booth where the four men were seated.
'Excuse me,' he said quietly.
Four well-fed faces whiplashed in his direction. Sonny felt more than saw a movement from behind, but a mobster lifted a finger, stilling the bodyguards in their tracks.
Another mobster said, 'Shit. What we got here? A wise ass?'
'Well, least he ain't yellow,' wheezed the fattest, 'though he sure looks it. Must be dim and then some!' He shook with silent laughter.
Sonny struggled to keep his facial muscles from tightening. It was all he could do to swallow the heat of his rage. He stared down at he man, his expression carefully bland. This was neither the time nor the place to show his anger. Besides, he recognized the racist's face, recalled its grainy monochrome from dozens of tabloid photographs: Marco 'the Clam' Capozzi, so nicknamed for his refusal to talk to the authorities—Marco on the federal courthouse steps, Marco in cuffs headed for a country club prison, Marco ducking into his limousine, into the social club that was said to be his 'family's' headquarters.
He said, 'That limo outside. It wouldn't happen to belong to one of you?'
'What if it does?' wheezed the fat mobster. 'You ram it?'
'No, but there were two men inside it.'
The fleshy eyes squinted meanly. 'Whatcha mean, 'were'?'
'Unfortunately, they have a tendency to poke their weapons at people.' Sonny shrugged. 'It made me nervous, so I . . . ah . . . neutralized them.'
The fat mobster signaled to one of the bodyguards, who hurried out to investigate.
'You kill 'em?' inquired the youngest, a sleek, baby-faced killer in his forties.
Sonny shook his head. 'No. Just knocked them unconscious, that's all.'
'Yeah? Whatcha use?'
'Just these.' Sonny lifted his hands.
'You' re full o' shit!' Marco huffed, grabbing his Sambuca and taking a slug. He banged the glass down on the table. 'My guys're tough as they come!'
From the back of the dining room came the cacophony of kitchen noises and women's chatter as a door opened and shut, then opened and shut again a minute later.
The bodyguard came running back inside. 'Hey, boss!' he called out.
Marco swiveled his head. 'What?' He glared angrily.
'You ain't gonna believe this, but Tony and Sal? They was both out cold.'
'What! Damn incompetent fools! I'll deal with them later!'
'They're startin' to come to, an' I asked 'em what happened? They said they don't know what hit 'em.'
Marco's ruddy face grew even redder. The veins on his forehead bulged like worms trying to pop out from under the skin. He stabbed a sausage-link finger at Sonny. 'As for this fuckin' clown, take him away. He's fish food!'
From behind him, Sonny heard the slides on guns being pulled back and released; the unmistakable metallic clicks of pistols being cocked.
'Who's fish food?' The strong female voice carried from the back.
They all turned and watched Mama Rosa, huge and imposing, come waddling forward. She was wearing the same washed-out blue housedress and baby blue vinyl slippers as yesterday. Even her apron looked identical.
'Put the guns away,' she commanded, scowling at the bodyguards, who in turn looked searchingly at Marco. Her dark eyes flashed. 'You know the rules. You pull a piece in my place, you're eighty-sixed. And since they're your guys,' she told Marco in no uncertain terms, 'that includes you.'
'But this slope—'
'Unh-unh. I don't want to hear no excuses!'
Mama Rosa rested her hands on her hips. Her massive bosom rose and fell, and on her forehead and upper lip, droplets of sweat gleamed moistly.
'Well?' She scowled at Marco.
Marco sighed and gestured to his bodyguards, who put their weapons away.
'That's better.' Mama nodded approvingly. 'You want my advice, Marco, I wouldn't mess with this guy. He's a friend of my Carmine's.'
She put a fleshy arm around Sonny's shoulder.
'Now, I'm taking this gentlemen upstairs to my place. He has business with Carmine.'
She took Sonny's arm.
'Now let's go upstairs so you can take care of business,' she said, guiding him through the sea of tables to a door marked PRIVATE.
It didn't lead to an office, as Sonny expected, but into a shabby, dim hallway and the tenement's staircase.
Mama Rosa grabbed hold of the banister. 'Now,' she sighed, 'we climb. I live five flights up.'
'Is Carmine waiting upstairs?' Sonny asked hopefully.
'We talk in private,' Mama admonished. Then, huffing and puffing, she slowly labored up the steep stairs.
The front door opened directly into the eat-in kitchen, which still retained its original cast-iron bathtub.
Sonny looked around.
The layout was your typical Little Italy railroad—four narrow rooms, like a series of nearly windowless boxcars, one leading into the next.
In the kitchen, every available wall space was hung with decoratively carved and painted shrines.
'Reliquaries,' Mama Rosa, wheezy and breathless from the climb, explained proudly. 'I collect saints' relics. Carmine, he brings them back from his travels. See this one here?'
Sonny nodded.<
br />
'It contains genuine remains of Saint Catherine of Siena. And the one up there? It's got some relics of Saint Mark. And that one, it's got a piece of bone of Saint Anthony of Padua . . . .'
No piece of Noah's Ark or the True Cross? Sonny was tempted to crack, but curbed the impulse.
'My Carmine, he treats his mama like a queen,' she said, her voice bursting with pride. 'He bought me this entire building. Imagine! How many sons would do that for their mama, eh?'
'Speaking of Carmine,' Sonny said, anxious to be on his way, 'where is he?'
'All in good time,' she said, making a beeline for the big deep double sink. 'First, Mama Rosa needs your help.'
My what? 'I'm not sure I understand,' he said cautiously.
'This place?' She gestured around. 'It's gettin' filthy.'
Sonny watched her bend over and pull a galvanized bucket filled with cleaning supplies out from under the sink. She carried it over and set it down in front of him.
What in hell? He stared down at the containers of Mr. Clean, Fantastik, and Windex; rags, sponges, and paper towels.
'The living room needs a good cleaning,' Mama Rosa said. 'So does Carmine's room, but that can wait. He hardly ever spends the night here anymore.' She tapped the closet door. 'The vacuum cleaner's in here. So are the mops and dust cloths.'
Jesus H. Christ! Sonny thought, with rising alarm. She can't be serious! Me—clean?
He said, 'Look, I'm in kind of a hurry'
She waved away his protests. 'That's the trouble with all you young people,' she said. 'Always in a hurry . . .'
'Yes, but—'
'I gotta go back downstairs,' she said.
'But—'
'I'll be back before you know it. Meanwhile, you clean.' Her eyes glinted shrewdly. 'Mama saved you from Marco. Right?'
'Well, yeah . . .'
'Now you can repay the favor.'
'But what about Carmine?'
She said, 'When I come back.'
And she was gone.
Sonny stood there glowering. 'Shit!' he shouted, giving the bucket a violent kick and sending it flying across the linoleum. 'How the hell did I get myself into this? I'm not the fuckin' maid!'
He stomped into the living room, its furniture, cheap and garish in the too-bright glare of the table lamps, an eyesore of overly ornate, cast resin 'carving.' The upholstered pieces were zippered in thick, protective clear vinyl covers. And, unlike the paintings in the restaurant, the pictures up here were ghastly. A machine-made tapestry of the Kennedy brothers, John and Robert, on one wall. A tapestry portrait of the pope on another. A New York skyline executed on black velvet studded with twinkle lights.
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