Why hadn’t he accepted her invitation then? God knows he wanted her. And she was right about that other thing, about being afraid. But not of her. Afraid of old Septimo and his Sicilian family honor. How could he tell her about a $500,000 Organization investment predicated upon his keeping his nose clean?
Twice that week he had called her. Twice they had met for drinks at the Dunes Motel. Each time it was the same. She fascinated him, stirred him. Each time he had driven her home untouched, unable to quell the instinct that had kept him alive when better men had died. Then she had worn that sack dress to a lunch at Peacock Alley. And it was then, over coffee, with her small, firm chin resting above her folded hands, that she said—
“I’m not going to see you any more, Mario. You’re beginning to bore me.”
His first reaction was boiling anger. He had thrown the money on the table. He had said “So long, bitch,” and walked out. He had walked and walked and he could not erase that final smile on her face. It was a Mona Lisa smile and Mario suddenly understood why the Mona Lisa smiled. It was because she was unattainable. It was because men were crazy to hold her breasts and suck the sweetness from her mouth, and it was an impossibility. It was impossible because then she would be just another woman with a silly smile.
But Gilly could be attained. He called the studio that afternoon. He called the studio four times before noon the next day. Each time a fag bastard had answered that Mrs. Blake was too busy to come to the phone. He waited for her later at the studio entrance, but she was with her husband and he had ducked into an alleyway.
That same afternoon he had ignored a legitimate tip and the feds had raided one of the Organization’s best cutting plants in the Bronx, nailing three men and six kilos of pure heroin. He had broken two appointments with Septimo the following day. And then, when he had given up, she was on the phone. Had he been calling her? she asked. Would she meet him for a drink on Tuesday night at the Dunes? he asked. A drink? she had asked. No, he had said, for more than a drink. She promised to be there and then the line went dead. Later he thought about it—had he said anything on the phone that could harm him?
Mario nosed the Bonneville down the steep cliff road leading to the Dunes. Even Septimo didn’t know about this one. Charlie Friars, a Smithtown politician who got rich approving zoning changes for builders doing business with his insurance agency, had gotten a severe case of the shorts while building the Dunes, a modern motel-cocktail lounge complex. At Charlie’s request, Mario had paid the unpaid bills and now had a hidden half ownership. It wasn’t likely he would run into any of Septimo’s bird dogs, not here. Organization men didn’t get the red carpet treatment at the Dunes, and they naturally favored the mob-owned places.
Gillian was already at the bar. Mario sucked in his breath and stood for a moment at the door, licking her with his eyes. She was talking to the bartender. Her slim legs were crossed at the knees and a lit cigarette was in her hand. The martini in front of her was untouched and moisture still frosted the outside of the glass. Good, she had just arrived. He was momentarily irked that he had not spotted her car outside. It was second nature to check a building before entering, even your own home, and he had forgotten.
“Hello, miss,” he said. “Are you lonely?”
“I thought you might keep me waiting forever,” she said.
He cupped her hand in his and she squeezed. Later they sat opposite each other at a small candlelit table, staring into each other’s eyes, holding long wordless conversations. They didn’t touch the filets. Mario felt the electricity when their fingers touched.
“How much longer are you going to make me wait, Mario?”
He took her hand and they moved out the door and down the carpeted corridor. The room door was ajar. Giant orange chrysanthemums glowed like a sunset from a vase on the coffee table. Next to the bed two bottles of Pinay ’61 were chilling in a glistening wine cooler heaped with crushed ice. Charlie had thought of everything.
He turned then to face Gilly. She kicked her shoes off and stood in front of him, her arms outstretched. He reached for her and folded her into his arms. Their lips met, hard and fierce at first, gradually relaxing into a soft, sucking pucker. Her head came barely to his shoulders. Without breaking the kiss, he reached down and pulled her up, his arms circling her legs just below the round of her hips. They stayed this way for moments, and then, scooping her into his arms, he gently carried her to the bed.
They lay side by side, still clothed. His hands played up over her breasts and she shuddered. Then he felt a shock as her knee, gently but insistently, pressed up into his groin. Her hands stayed behind his neck, her fingernails softly tracing up and down the nape. He turned her yielding head and, taking the lobe of her ear in his mouth, he sucked it between his lips, licked it with his tongue. Then he moved his head higher, pressing his tongue into her ear. She gripped him tightly, her knee working against his crotch, her body moving now in an undulating rhythm.
“Wait with me a second,” he murmured, kissing her softly on the lips again.
He rose from the bed and crossed the room. He undressed quickly and turned to face her. She came to him and, as he reached out, she pirouetted on her toes and came into his arms backwards. His hands clasped her breasts. She looked up at him over her shoulder.
“Unzip me,” she said. “Please.”
He slowly pulled the zipper down to its nesting place in the round of her back and, with a quick movement, she stepped out of the dress. She stooped, snatched up the dress, dropped it on a chair. Then, her hands clasped childlike behind her back, she turned to face him.
She was wearing no bra and her firm small breasts stood erect, her little pink nipples already hard from desire, pink-white peaks rising from the residue of her tan. So much like the dream, so close to the dream. She had the supple body of a long-distance swimmer, so slim, so frail compared to what Mario had known.
“Come, Mario,” she said, “come with me.”
She took his hand and almost shyly led him to the bed. She snuggled to him as he moved his lips and tongue along the hollow of her shoulder and neck. He circled her nipples with his tongue, never touching until impatiently she thrust them into his mouth. Their fever mounted and their bodies moved together as he unsheathed her from her panties.
“Now,” she gasped, “now.”
It was a plea and a command, and he obeyed. It was almost over before it started. Her willingness, her desire, had caused him to explode almost as soon as they joined. He leaned heavily on his hands, praying for strength. Her hips kept moving and she stared up at him, her eyes clouding. Was it disappointment? And then, almost as it disappeared, he felt his manhood growing again inside her and he smiled down at her.
“What’s the matter, Gilly?” he said. “Didn’t you know about Italian lovers?”
“Shhh,” she said.
A few moments later he felt her climax, and again, and a third time before he exploded again and collapsed into her arms, kissing her hands, her breasts, her neck, her ears, her mouth. He felt her going to sleep and he let her go and the last thing she said was—
“You’re not afraid of me any more, are you, Mario?”
He awoke to a cold feeling on his feet. Gilly, her hair bobbing freely, was splashing champagne against his feet. Her breasts were suspended seductively as she bent toward his toes.
“That’s good champagne,” he said. “It’s made for drinking.”
“Is it?”
Her pink tongue darted over his feet. One by one she caught his toes in her mouth and gently sucked on them.
“Champagne lollypops,” she said.
She splashed the champagne on his legs and followed it with her tongue. As she moved up, her breasts rubbed against his feet and then his legs, and finally his thighs. He groaned, let her continue and, when he could stand it no more, reached for her. This time it was slow, measured and sure and they climaxed together, ending with their arms entwined and their lips pressed together. And agai
n sleep came. Mario slept for fifteen minutes. When he awoke, Gilly was dressed and standing by the bed.
“Goodbye, Mario,” she said.
“What are you talking?” he said.
“Just goodbye, that’s all,” she said. “And you might think of me every time you screw that cow.”
Before he could get to his feet, she was gone. On her face, that smile again. Bitch! Mario rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stepped into his trousers, cursed her again. Why? He had been better than any three men, better than that whore had ever seen. He walked out to his car. Tomorrow he would have her again. Tomorrow, he knew, he had to have her again. Tomorrow the phone would ring and she would come crawling, begging for the chance to lick the champagne from his toes. They were all alike finally. Cows or whores, whores or cows. And whatever he thought at that moment, he knew Gilly was no cow.
Sliding the key into the starter, he glanced up at the rear-view mirror. He found himself staring directly into Louie’s eyes. He swung around swiftly and looked into the back seat. Louie and Danny were both there. Both were wearing overcoats with the collars turned up around the neck. Danny’s hand was wrapped around the Beretta, its silencer gleaming wickedly in the courtesy light.
“What the hell you guys doing here?” Mario said. “You’re supposed to be in Chicago.”
“Septimo canceled the trip,” Louie said. “He’s waiting for us at the top of the cliff.”
Mario tumbled the odds. Septimo hadn’t come out here to scold him. Mario’s two best contract men would never hold a gun on him, not unless the old man had given direct orders. And having done this, they could not hope to live unless Mario himself were dead. Mario couldn’t believe it. But there it was. Septimo wanted to kill him, his own son-in-law. As he reached for the emergency brake, he remembered the built-in panel. Three upward taps on the brake and the panel would slide and a loaded .38 would drop into his hand.
“It ain’t there,” Louie said. “Remember, I’m the one had it put in for you.”
The road widened on the cliff side into a small parking area at the top. A frail wooden fence bordered the two-hundred-foot drop. It was quite a spot, Charlie had told him, great for cheap lovers. He nosed the car against the fence and stopped. Septimo stood beside a rented car.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Mario,” he said. “You’re scum, like your father. Only you done worse. You dishonor my daughter. You dishonor the name Caggiano.”
Septimo pressed his lips to his hand and then pressed the hand to Mario’s face. “Bacce del morte,” he said and turned away. Louie stood outside the car, covering him with the gun. Danny reached over, turned on the radio full blast and got out. Danny returned and dumped three bulging plastic bags in the front seat. Mario could smell the gasoline.
The two killers pushed the car slowly toward the fence, and Mario was frozen with fear. Septimo applied his butane cigarette lighter to a sheet of newspaper and, as the car rolled by, he tossed the flaming paper through the window. The explosion came as the car went over the edge and tumbled twice. Then it struck the rocks below.
EXCERPT FROM “THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW,” DECEMBER 16TH
Gilly: Well, it’s time to deck the halls and do the Christmas shopping, dear.
Billy: Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-la.
Gilly: You’ve got a lovely voice, dear, but let’s keep this a conversation show.
Billy: Okay, so I’m no Johnny Alonga, but I think I carry a tune rather well.
Gilly: Speaking of Johnny Alonga, I’m just heartsick over what happened to his manager, that nice Mario Vella.
Billy: I know. And the police said it wasn’t a suicide or an accident. So it had to be.…
Gilly: Never mind, I think that’s just too morbid for words. Anyway, let’s get back to Christmas shopping.
Billy: That’s something else I’d rather not contemplate.
Gilly: I know. We seem to be doing our best to keep the commerciality in Christmas.
Billy: Yes, all you need for a merry Christmas is money.
Gilly: Ummm. Money. Why is it that you never have it when you need it most?
Billy: Probably because you always need it. I mean, if it’s not Christmas presents, it’s the old faithfuls—the telephone bill, the mortgage, the fuel bill, and all the rest.
Gilly: That’s part of the joy of being a home owner. It’s the emergencies that hurt.
Billy: You sound worried, dear. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and run up a gambling debt, or spent the milk money on demon rum?
Gilly: Oh, you’re so silly. No, I’m just speaking figuratively. It’s simply that money can be a problem.
Billy: Yes, but you know what they say. It can’t buy happiness.
Gilly: Perhaps not, but there are times when it can quell anxiety.
MARVIN GOODMAN
IT was the week before Christmas, traditionally a time of heightened emotion, and two residents of King’s Neck shared the feeling that the world, or at least their private worlds, would soon end. Neither of the two anticipated a particularly pleasant finale. Marvin Goodman was once again on the verge of bankruptcy. And Gillian Blake was pregnant.
Marvin Goodman groped anxiously toward the Danish modern mailbox that hung from the rough-hewn shingles of his Custom Split, and extracted a dozen envelopes of various sizes, shapes and colors. The sight of the cellophane windows was sufficient to justify his next-to-worst fears, to induce his recurrent daylight nightmare.
He walked noiselessly through the foyer into the living room, barely conscious of the thick velvet pile ($22.50 a yard) that cushioned his steps. He totally ignored the climate control system that nurtured his well-being, the Tanganyikan carvings, the pre-Columbian figures, the abstract expressionist oils, the limited-edition art books that fed or stimulated his aesthetic needs.
Marvin tore open the wide manila envelope first and watched as the garish illustration of a one-time comic book hero and erstwhile companion of his youth fluttered to the floor. “Bat-shit,” Marvin said, resisting the temptation to grind his heel into his fallen idol’s groin. The sadistic smile that had accompanied the impulse faded as speedily as the gray winter sun over the Lombardy poplars marking the Goodmans’s rear property line.
“Bat … shit,” he reiterated slowly, while a dozen mauve, perfumed sheets fell from a squarish envelope tastefully imprinted Saks Fifth Avenue. A remaining sheet, imprisoned between Marvin’s thumb and forefinger, indicated that $249.89 worth of unpaid merchandise had been transferred from the Saks showroom to the Goodman residence during the past thirty-day period. Added to previous shipments, still unpaid, the total due now exceeded the Goodmans’ joint checking account balance by an amount approximating seven hundred dollars. Marvin did not have the strength to figure it to the penny.
Combining X-ray vision with computerlike speed, Marvin’s troubled mind assessed the contents of the other envelopes. Each envelope’s return address triggered a response that fed a familiar figure to the accurate accounting department in Marvin’s brain. Long Island Lighting Company ($44)… Suburban Meats ($52)… Green Pasture Farms ($35)… New York Telephone Company ($32)… Dr. Hetterton ($145 outstanding)… and so on.
“Helene!” Marvin screamed. “Helene!”
“What do you want, honey?”
“Get your ass down here.”
Through more than a decade of marriage to Marvin, Helene Goodman’s cells had developed responses of their own. On the rare occasions when she sensed unqualified hatred, she sought refuge. Anger, Marvin’s most familiar attitude, was met with yielding softness, unswerving agreement and the promise to improve, to really try like hell next month. Manifestations of softness on Marvin’s part, on the other hand, were invariably tested for small advantages. It was the sort of thing Helene had excelled at since high school—and even then there was evidence of great and practical flexibility. She would not stir, for example, should a popular boy’s hand move toward her indifferent breasts if a prom was in
the offing; however, should the same young man seek to continue his explorations on the way home from the prom, he would win only rebuke.
Now in her early thirties, Helene had not appreciably changed. Her breasts, though fuller, were still indifferent. Her use of them, though refined through time, was still primarily geared toward inducing Marvin to do her bidding. Figuratively as well as literally they served as pacifiers. At this moment Helene instinctively opened the third button of her blouse to expose her cleavage more fully. She put on her fun-loving face, and as she worked her way down the abbreviated staircase she added the final touch, the hip swing.
“What’s the matter, honey?” she said, at the same time catching sight of the Saks bill crumpled on the thick carpeting. “Did Saks make another little mistake?”
Marvin flicked his head slightly, a boxer evading a left jab. He had, within his solid accountant’s mind, constructed a flawless case. His profligate wife had obviously, perhaps even deliberately, overspent their available funds on personal luxuries. She had done this despite a November promise to try like hell to do better. She was wrong and she would be punished. He was the aggrieved party and would determine her fate.
But the possibility of a bookkeeping error had not been considered. Big department stores are not supposed to make mistakes and yet, as an accountant, Marvin knew how often they could and did. The possibility, however remote, destroyed the perfection of his attack. It would have to be erased before he could feel completely victimized and thus self-righteous once again.
“What the hell do you mean another mistake?”
“Oh, honey”—teasingly now—“you remember that time you were so angry that you got all mixed up. You called me a ‘gold damndigger.’ And how cute you looked when you had to apologize. They’d sent us your mother’s bill by mistake. You remember that, don’t you?”
It had happened, of course. Six years ago, as he recalled. He also recalled that Helene’s explanations had seemed so absurd at the time that he had stopped just short of hitting her. And then Saks had admitted the error. And his widowed mother, whom he constantly held up as a model of economy, had actually run up the staggering bill. It was a multiple embarrassment and, in order to let his wife recover her self-respect, he had stood idly by while she embarked on her greatest buying spree. Wincing at the memory, he revised his strategy—after all, was not discretion the better part of malice?
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