Naked Came the Stranger (12 page)

It had been Gilly who suggested the tour on the way home –
she had asked him to drive north to Oldfield so she could see the
winter sun set on the Sound. "If we watched from our own cliffs," she
had said, "people would think we were lovers." They parked at the
road's end. She sat staring down at the water and his body ached to
possess her, to tear off her clothes and crush her to him, to explore
the smoothness of her body with his hands and mouth, to hear
her….

But it was she who made the first move. Her arms were about his
neck and her face was against his. "Poor Mario," she had said, "you
want me so much." Her lips brushed his and her warm tongue darted
into his mouth.

He stared at her, fighting it. And then he had said, "It's late.
We better get home."

She had laughed at that. "I like you, Mario. There's something
about you, something menacing, and that's intriguing. And you're
afraid of me and I think I like that too. But chase away your ghosts,
Mario, I may not like you forever."

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 crysanthemums 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 cars, 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 woke 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 again 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.

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: 1 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.