Beirut Incident

by Nick Carter

  I slid my hand under the panties and gently across her buttocks, so that the back of my hand pulled downward on them. Her hips lifted ever so slightly so that they were clear of the floor, and in a moment I had the panties off and discarded. With a single twist of the fingers, I unhooked her bra, and as I moved away so that I would have room to take it off, I could feel Philomina's fingers fumbling at my trousers.

  In a moment, Philomina and T were both naked, and her face was buried in my shoulder. I carried her into the bedroom. For a luxurious minute, I contented myself with the feel of her bare breasts against my chest, then pulled her tightly to me, throbbing with desire.

  Then Philomina began to move, slowly, gently at first, touching me, stroking me, her mouth wet and hot on mine. My muscles tensed, crying out for her, shuddering with anticipation.

  She was moving faster now, intensity replacing subtlety, flame burning the smoke away. With one great convulsive movement, I went over on top of her, pressing her down on the bed, driving in, ramming through, smashing down on her, consuming and being consumed.

  She squirmed upward, writhing in ecstasy, her hands clutching my buttocks and pressing me into her. "Oh, my God!" she cried. "Oh, Jesus!" Her legs wrapped tightly around my waist as she heaved upward against my weight and I half-rose to my knees to accommodate her, sliding deeper, more exquisitely, then pumping wildly, frantically, and finally exploding in a great torrent of exultation.

  Chapter 11

  Later, still lying on the floor, she clung to me tightly. "Don't leave me, Nick. Please don't leave me. I'm so alone, and so scared."

  She had been lonely and scared for a long time. She told me about it as we sat at the window table, watching a streaky dawn break in the east, and sipping at mugs of black coffee.

  For years, growing up in the Franzini household on Sullivan Street as a little girl, she had had no concept that Popeye Franzini was anything except her kind and loving "Uncle Joe." From the time she was nine years old, he would take great delight in letting her push him in his wheelchair down to Washington Square Park on Sundays, where he used to like to feed the squirrels.

  I sipped at my mug of coffee, and was reminded of one of life's more curious puzzles. Why is it that every woman who is extraordinary in bed is unable to brew a decent cup of coffee? A friend of mine used to say you could tell an overly sexy woman by the prominence of the veins on the back of her hand. But my experience has been that you can tell them by the lousy quality of their coffee.

  Philomina's coffee tasted like chicory. I stood up and stepped over to her side of the table. I leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. My hand slipped inside the blue robe she was now wearing and gently fondled her bare breast.

  She leaned back in the chair for a moment, her eyes closed, long lashes soft against her cheek. "Mmmmmmm!" Then she pushed me away gently. "Go sit down and finish your coffee."

  I shrugged. "If you'd rather."

  She giggled. "Not really, but let's finish our coffee, anyway."

  I gave her a mock look of male chauvinism rejected and sat down again. The coffee still tasted like chicory.

  "When did you find out?" I asked.

  "You mean about Uncle Joe?"

  I nodded.

  She cocked her head, thinking. "I guess I was about thirteen or so. There was a big story about Uncle Joe in The New York Times Magazine. We didn't read the Times. Nobody on Sullivan Street did. We all read the Daily News, but someone tore it out and sent it to me in the mail." She smiled. "At first, I just couldn't believe it. It said Uncle Joe was a Mafia boss, a gangster.

  "I was terribly upset for a long time, even though I didn't really understand it all." She paused, her mouth tighter. "I know who sent it to me, too. At least I think I do."

  I snorted. People don't usually carry teenage grudges into adulthood. "Who?" I asked.

  She made a face. "Rusty Pollard."

  "That thin red-headed girl in the green dress at the party?"

  "That's the one." She sighed and let the tone of her voice ease off a bit. "Rusty and I went all the way through school together. We always hated each other. Still do, I guess. Though we're a little more grown up about it now."

  "How come you always hated each other?"

  Philomina shrugged. "Rich Italian, poor Irish, living next door to each other. What do you expect?"

  "What happened after you read the story?" I asked.

  "At first I didn't believe it, but in a way I had to. I mean, after all, it was in the Times. And I hated it! I just hated it! I used to love my Uncle Joe, and I used to feel so sorry for him in his wheelchair and everything, and then all of a sudden I couldn't stand him to touch me, or to be with me."

  I was puzzled. "But you continued living with him."

  She made a face. "I stayed with him because I had to. What's a thirteen-year-old girl going to do? Run away? And whenever I was the least bit disobedient, he'd beat me." Unconsciously, she rubbed her cheek, a long-forgotten bruise scarring her memory. "You learn in a hurry that way."

  "Is that what made you go to the FBI?"

  She poured herself another cup of the bitter coffee. "Of course not," she said after she had thought about it a moment.

  "I hated the whole awful thing about killing and stealing and cheating, but I learned to live with it. I had to. I just decided that when I was eighteen, I would run away, join the Peace Corps, do something."

  "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 wen
t 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.

  HINT NEW GANG WAR IN MAFIA MYSTERY

  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."

  "What about Su Lao Lin?"

  "Dead as a goddamned doornail, Vinnie says."

  Louie was as upset as his uncle now, arms akimbo on his hips, head thrust forward. I wondered if he'd made love to her, too.

  "Anyone else hurt?"

  Popeye shook his head, almost as if he were disappointed. "Nah. Except that goddamned Charlie Harkins got shot."

  "Is he dead, too?"

  Popeye nodded. "Yeah."

  Louie frowned. "You think the Ruggieros did it?" Good boy, Louie, I applauded silently.

  "Of course I think the Ruggieros did it," Popeye roared. "What the hell you think? Canzoneri here sees a Ruggiero in the dame's hotel, then meets him at Harkins' joint. Then there are two dead bodies. You don't think there's a connection? You think maybe it's just a coincidence?"

  "No, no, Uncle Joe," Louie placated. "Except I don't know why the Ruggieros would knock them off. We even brought in a few guys for them through Beirut. It doesn't make any sense unless they're just out to get us."

  "Goddamn! What the hell do you think?" Popeye picked up the newspaper from his desk and waved it, "Did you read the goddamned paper this morning?"

  Louie shrugged. "I don't know, Uncle Joe. Larry's been missing before when he's gone off on a jag. That story could just be a lot of bull. You know how Hobby Miller is. That guy Gourlay can make him say anything he wants."

  But the old man was not to be put down. He waved the paper again. "What about Beirut, then, smart-alec? What about it?"

  Louie nodded, trying to puzzle it out. "Yeah, I know. The two together are just too much. I guess they're going out to get us all right, but Jeez! just a few weeks ago everything seemed to be going all right."

  "Goddamn!" The old man pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand. "It don't sound all right to me!"

  Louie shook his head. "I know, I know, Uncle Joe. But a street war doesn't make sense right now. We got enough troubles."

  "We gotta do something! I ain't going to take that kind of shit from nobody," Popeye shouted.

  "Okay, okay," Louie said. "So what do you want us to do?"

  The old man's eyes narrowed, and he backed a half-turn away from his desk. "Kill me someone, goddamn! Just a little one, maybe. I don't want no Ruggiero. Not yet. I don't. I just want 'em to know we don't mess around." The hate in Popeye's eyes leaped with excitement now. The old man could smell blood. His fat hand clenched the rollbar of his wheelchair. "Go on, goddammit," he shouted. "Get moving!"

  Chapter 12

  Louie and I sat hunched over cups of cappuchino in the Decima Coffee House on West Broadway.

  The walls were a chocolate brown, and the worn linoleum on
the floor, perhaps green years ago, was a filthy black. A dozen oversized, gilt-framed paintings hung from the walls, their canvases barely distinguishable through a patina of fly specks and grease. A dirty glass counter showcase displayed a tired collection of pastries — napoleone, baba al rum, mille foglie, cannoli, pasticiotti. The only evidence of cleanliness was the magnificent espresso machine at the other end of the counter. It gleamed brightly, all silver and black, polished to a high sheen. Atop it an eagle rampant, its wings spread defiantly, reigned in cast-iron glory.

  Louie looked a little sick.

  I stirred my coffee. "What's the matter, Louie? Hangover? Or haven't you ever wasted anyone before?"

  He nodded bleakly. "No… well, no. You know…"

  I knew, all right. All of a sudden it was no longer so clean for Uncle Joe's little nephew Louie. All his life he'd been glorying in the Mafia game with all of its excitement, romance, money and mystique. But he had never really been involved himself. For Louie, life had been a good private school, a good college, a good easy job running a legitimate olive oil business, a good time associating with famous mobsters but unsullied by them.

  Even his name was clean, I remembered again. "Louie," I asked, "how come your name is Lazaro? Wasn't your Dad named Franzini?"

  Louie nodded, smiling ruefully. "Yeah. Luigi Franzini. Lazaro is my mother's maiden name. Uncle Joe had it changed for me when I came to live with him. I guess he wanted to keep me away from all the trouble. I mean, you wouldn't want your kid to be named Al Capone, Jr."

  I laughed. "Yeah. Guess you're right. So what are you going to do now?" I asked.

  He spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know. It's not like anyone did anything, really. I mean, hell, to just go out and blast a guy because he belongs to the Ruggieros…"

  It's the facts of life, sonny boy, I thought. I squeezed his shoulder. "You'll think of something, Louie," I said comfortingly.

  We stepped out of the Decima and Louie looked up and down the street for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. "Look, Nick," he said with a sudden grin, "why don't I show you the Counting House?"