Mob Sisters - Part III

7

Vic, Harry, and her closest associates were discussing how they'd go about organizing the heroin situation from here on in.

"How much do we need in all?" Georgia asked.

"Two hundred grand for openers," Vic said, "followed by another payment of half a mil, and after that, even more, to make it on the scale I negotiated."

"Can't we cut the order down to a smaller size, depending on how much we can scrape together now?" the Cow wanted to know.

"My credibility would suffer if we made too big an adjustment. I'm still waiting to hear from the National Commission — we're trying to reach a compromise, and it hasn't been settled yet."

"How about using that as an excuse to delay Cestari?" Georgia suggested. "That and Internal Revenue. You have all the papers as proof."

"Sure, blame it on fucking Uncle."

"Maybe," Vic conceded, "if worse came to worst. But I'd sure hate to."

Harry said, "The question is how much longer the guy's gonna be patient."

"Yeah, " Vic explained, "I have to get my ass on over there to Cestari as soon as possible. I just don't feel I can put this off much longer. We have to make a move soon."


Vic had tried her best to get Zino to arrange clearances at the airport for her narcotics, but he was still reluctant to cooperate, saying he was under heavy government surveillance and couldn’t take the risk. Also, although thanks to her negative sales pitch he'd lost enthusiasm for Jack's gambling deals, he hadn't definitively told the Teamsters to shine it on. Their sexual affair continued in a surprisingly desultory manner; on the one hand he seemed interested when she assumed an aggressive approach, but took little initiative on his own. She had the gnawing feeling he could take it or leave it.

Then, adding insult to injury, it seemed he was turning his back on her. What was this guy's problem? Then she got a clue. Harry said, "I don't want to scare you, honey, but my prick is dribbling... It sure seems inflamed, and it's sore as hell."

"Oh, God. Don't tell me ..." Crabs? Clap? Herpes? Syph? What could it be?

"I gotta go to the doctor and find out."

It wasn't till after Harry mentioned it that Vic discovered similar symptoms in herself. Sure enough, gonorrhea, and on top of it a yeast infection to boot. "Christ," she said, "how the hell did this happen? I never got anything before in my life. I've never had monilia, trichomonas or even candida, for God's sake."

"Amazing, with the amount of action that cunt's seen."

Who gave this venereal infection to whom, Vic wanted to know. Could Jasmine have given it to Tony, who gave it to her, and she gave it to Harry? Or could Harry have given it to her (from whom?) and the round robin went in that direction? At any rate, the damned clap probably explained the rupture. She'd have to get it smoothed over with Zino to keep him on her side.

She found him at the Round Table at his customary corner spot with his punks, who wandered away to let them talk. Vic said, "I swear I didn't give you that fucking social disease. It wasn't me." Zino just looked disgusted.

"Don't blame me for something I didn't do," she persisted. "It was an unfortunate incident that could happen to anybody, and it happened to me too, don't forget. Christ on the fucking cross, you could be the one that dosed me, for God's sake — in fact, how do I know you didn't?"

Finally he came around. "Ok," he acknowledged. "We'll call it a draw."


8

The swing money was late. It was supposed to be wired by a certain date but wasn't. When Terri phoned the Bahamas and spoke to Shirley Bennett, the banker, Shirley said, "Didn't you get my message? Don`t panic. The money will be there in another 48 hours. All is well."

But two business days passed and the money still wasn't in. Again Terri phoned Shirley, only this time she couldn't get through and Shirley wasn't returning her calls either.

"It looks like another phony bites the dust," Terri told the others. "We'll have to tap a different source or lose the deal."

"Where do we come up with a couple of million in cash quick?"

"Not here. The only way is counterfeit paper abroad."

"Right. We counterfeit the entire thing," Jasmine said. "Call Lucille in New Orleans and tell her to hightail it to New York on the double."

"We can do bank notes," Laura said. "Lucille is great on that vehicle. Nobody ever knows her CUSIP numbers are fake."

"Sure, bank notes can be discounted and they pay 7 per cent interest besides. Bank notes are preferable to currency," Terri agreed.

"No," Jasmine objected, "there isn't enough time for bank notes. They take more preparation. We have to research the CUSIPs so there's no foul up and nobody gets suspicious. There's a rush on this, so currency's the way to go."


At last the Cow had given Vic a clean bill of health, her plumbing was back in working order, thank God; she was ready for action again. Legal and other business complications that had been holding her up were being worked out, a deal had been struck with the IRS which should be available for her signature in just a few days, she'd paid off a few judges and LEO's, and things were calming down for the time being. It wouldn't be much longer before she'd be able to get together with Cestari again. Meantime, once and for all she wanted to make sure Zino's Teamster connections would definitely renege on getting the construction loan. With the casino distraction behind them, the LFMs would be able to devote full energies to her interests, then they'd begin full scale narcotics expansion in earnest.

When Georgia brought back the Pega Palo, Vic gave some to Harry as a trial. He couldn't believe the stuff. It gave him a hard on he couldn't get rid of the entire weekend and caused him to lose twelve pounds.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he asked. "Jesus H. Christ." So the stuff definitely worked like a charm. Now all she had to do was give some to Zino to raise his level of excitement to a proper pitch. He'd soon forget the bad taste in his mouth from the social disease; then she'd finalize her plans.

Cornering him at the Mannequin, she laid her bait. "I have something that'll blow your mind," she told him.

"Yeah, what's that?"

"Pega Palo." She held up a small bottle of clear liquid that had a peculiar-looking pale brown root with long silky tentacles swimming in it. "It's the hottest item in town and I am the only woman who has it."

"Never heard of it. What is it?"

"A rare herb to be obtained in only one country in the world, the Dominican Republic, that can make a guy incredibly hard and give him amazing endurance."

Zino shrugged, unimpressed. "I already got all that."

"I know, sweetheart, but this'll improve on the existing, believe me. One shot mixed with alcohol and a guy can fuck without quitting for days. The last guy I used this with lost fifteen pounds balling me, with a non-stop erection over a five day weekend. Sonovabitch not only wouldn't but couldn't quit."

"Doll, in my case this is never a problem."

"Pega Palo makes a weasel into a stallion." She rotated the bottle in her hand enticingly. "Not only that, the kick is fantastic."

"Yeah?" He started to look interested. "Well, you got a real record to beat —like seventeen times a night."

"I'm from Missouri. Prove it."

"At the right time maybe I will."

"How about now?"

"This minute?"

"Why not? Got anything more important to do than exercise your dick muscles?"

"I guess not," he conceded, and requested the check.

His driver dropped them at the Woodward. "So you once fucked somebody 17 times a night. Wanna try for 18 or 20?" Vic asked, as they were riding up in the elevator to the penthouse. At the built-in bar in the den she took out the small Pega Palo bottle containing the clear liquid and strange-looking root with spiny tentacles swimming in it. She mixed him his favorite Early Times straight up spiked with a strong dose of the potent solution, then turned the radio on to his favorite music, and they danced cheek to cheek on the wrap-around terrace, the way he liked before sex.

"Tell me how this stuff works," Zino said, "because I think I'm starting to feel something already."

"It causes blood to pump several times faster than normal to the cock."

"You're sure it isn't dangerous? Nothing's gonna happen?"

"Hell, no. It's purely a local phenomenon, like a natural aphrodisiac, with incredible pleasure sensations."

In a half hour's time, Zino really started to feel his oats. He became a tiger, throwing her down on the circular bed and tearing at her clothes. The fish tank with its flashing neon lights made eerie patterns on his face, giving a diabolical cast to his mouth and teeth. Who could even tell how much time passed while they were in bed. Vic counted. Would you believe twenty-five times, and no sign of quitting. Not bad for a guy of his age, or any age for that matter.

But then something went radically wrong. They were on the twenty-sixth fuck when Zino's heart must have balked or something. Maybe the strain was too great. Maybe he needed a pacemaker and hadn't had it installed in time. Maybe it was his age, after all. At any rate, he suddenly clutched his chest and in a loud voice bellowed, "Ahhhwwwgghhh!" His torso buckled, and his cock twisted right out of her — she'd been about to come, dammit all — and then he lay silent, apparently having passed out cold. But his cock was still hard as a rock and fully erect.

What to do? Vic donned her robe and immediately dialed 911. The rescue squad was great, arriving inside of just five minutes and executing their job to perfection. Naturally, all the paramedics recognized Zino instantly, he being one of the city's greatest celebrities. Everyone remarked on the phenomenon of his hard-on and how it persevered even in the face of cardiac arrest. Next morning's tabloid headlines featured the story of the mobster's heart attack. Fortunately, Vic's name was withheld due to her influence with the NYPD. Zino's amazing priapism, however, was alluded to in the stories, while doctors at St. Luke's/Roosevelt Hospital were forced to admit that never in the history of their medical practice had they seen a coronary patient with such a giant erection that refused to subside.

So in a roundabout way, Vic achieved her goal. She hadn't willed the heart attack, but being out of commission, Zino would have to postpone the Sapphire Bay/Vegas Teamsters loans for the time being. She heard from Al "Sugar" Zucchero that Zino blamed her for his coronary, said it happened because of Pega Palo.

"That's ridiculous," Vic told Harry. "As if he weren't free, white and over 21. And he was the one who begged me to give it to him!"

"Well, honey, you'll just have to mend a few fences. Visit him in the hospital, send flowers and cards, and remember that time will take care of the rest."

"Right you are, Harry. And now that most of our problems are, thank God, either out of the way or about to be, what's next on the agenda is my finally getting over to see Cestari and mending that fence."


9

"Approximately 10 or 12 million to be on the safe side, in untraceable paper," Terri was telling the others, "in order to get 4 million cash out of the deal. We're counting on 30%, that's what it's supposed to be on the other end."

"It's the quickest thing we can do, and it's a big order," Laura said.

"We can handle it," Jasmine said. "American dollars is our best bet."

"The hardest bill to duplicate is the hundred, so we could just do 20's," Laura suggested.

"Not so easy to transport. Hundreds are bad enough."

"Maybe we can do a combination."

Chinatown's Eleanor Lee Wong, Laura's lieutenant, was a big help. El said, "We have an order out of Hong Kong with a London connection. Friends of friends will pay 35% of face value, and they want to see more samples."

"Lucille can produce the entire order. And it'll be cash on the barrelhead."

"Are we certain of our sources?" Laura asked.

"Absolutely," Eleanor assured her. "The people in Hong Kong I know personally, the London people are their contacts and Hong Kong has vouched for them."

"You'd be surprised how many people don't care if it's genuine," Jasmine said. "Bills are definitely quickest. That and cd's."

"And not to worry, 90% or more arrests for counterfeiting are made on tips," Laura said. "So the fewer people who know about this the better. We keep it entre nous."

"As long as you know who you're dealing with you're safe," Eleanor said. "And as long as the product is top quality."

"Which this of course will be."

"How do we get so much cash into England? Ten, twelve million dollars in twenties or even hundreds — do you know how much space that takes up? What happens at Customs?"

Terri said, "I've taken care of that problem."

Just the day before yesterday Terri had explained the situation to Tom Kelly and asked for his cooperation. Now that she was his niece by marriage, they were on familiar terms. "I realize your field is maritime, Tom," Terri said, "but through the joint brotherhood of unions, hopefully you can reach out to contacts in the airlines and through them to Customs. We're trying to save Jack's hide and we need all the help we can get, so I'd appreciate your pulling out all stops."

Kelly phoned back the next day to let her know he'd arranged for her to fly out of Kennedy and into Heathrow with no hassles, circumventing Customs entirely.

Terri thanked him but also said, "Tom, I want to make it clear — I'm taking some big risks. I'm transporting and selling counterfeits, and I'm pregnant besides, so that's a further risk I'm assuming."

Kelly said, "Terri, I'm in your debt forever for helping my nephew. I repeat my previous offer — anything you ever need or ask — consider it done."


Lucille Rand arrived and checked into the Pierre to set up preliminary operations. The sixty-something Lucille, grandmother of five, was the oldest ranking member of the LFM, a onetime Time-Life photographer and counterfeiter without peer. It was Lucille who in the early days turned out all the illegal stamps used on liquor bottles from the outfit's Brooklyn still, and hatched plans to manufacture currency and securities. Later on, she moved out of Manhattan to become commander-in-chief of New Orleans, where she now wielded considerable influence.

When Lucille was ready to swing into action, the team met down at Eleanor's place in Chinatown.

"These few measly millions won't affect the economy much," Lucille said.

"So the cost is passed on to the consumer. What can it amount to, a penny a person?" Laura asked.

Sure, who could feel guilty about counterfeiting? One more sacred cow. The US government was the ultimate counterfeiter par excellence. So who gave them the exclusive right to inflate the money supply?

The paper Lucille was using was as close to the original as possible, most of it 25% rag. Anything higher in rag content, Lucille said, would feel too soft. "The 25% has just the right crackle. It's as close to the real thing as you can get."

The fix was in, it was a done deal. "Anyway, the Federal Reserve is actually illegal," Eleanor said. "It was never meant to be that way. Our founding fathers would never tolerate the Federal Reserve. So in our small way, this is a cry of protest. And think of the good that's going to come from it."


10

Not pregnant? How could that possibly be?

Terri lay naked from the waist down, under a sheet, her legs in metal stirrups. Her obstetrician, Dr. Melvin Goldfarb, was removing his surgical gloves, having just given her a physical exam.

"What you had, Terri, is very rare," Dr. Goldfarb said. "It's known as a phantom pregnancy. It happens only once in 1,500,000 cases."

Terri couldn't believe what the doctor was telling her. All her tests were positive, she'd had all the signs — absence of menstrual periods; weight gain, breast, waist and belly enlargement; morning sickness, frequency of urination, food cravings; she even had milk in her breasts. Now Dr. Goldfarb was telling her she wasn't pregnant?

He had reached up into her uterus to find there was no fetus – the one missing symptom. By now there should have been a fetus.

"I don't understand," Terri protested, incredulous. "I felt so pregnant — my husband felt it too — "

"I understand your disappointment," Dr. Goldfarb sympathized. "But young lady, if it's any consolation, you can count yourself lucky to discover it this early. The longer it went on the worse it would have been."

"How long could it have continued?" Terri asked.

Dr. Goldfarb shrugged. "Some women even carry a pseudo fetus to term. They actually have labor pains — "

Some women actually got on the operating table, Dr. Goldfarb said, they pushed and pushed, but no baby came out. The doctor was fooled, the laboratories were fooled, the parents were fooled, everybody was fooled.

So she wasn't pregnant; after all that, there would be no baby. She'd been looking forward to this infant so much. Terri thought about the layette, the crib, stroller, pram, all the trappings in the nursery, and fought tears, overcome by a sense of loss. She'd been so elated, so full of plans and dreams. This baby had meant so much to her, and all along it was never real.

It had been the one thing holding her marriage to Jack together. Now she had no further reason to stay with him any longer. She would keep her promise to him, take the counterfeit currency to London, do the deal, and then see a divorce lawyer.

Jack resigned himself to it being over between them. Their relationship was a truce now. He was grateful for her help in settling his debts, especially because, believe it or not, things had worsened even more for him. Just recently he'd taken a trip to California, where he'd failed to collect a marker he said was owed him. At Santa Anita, he ran into some intimidating characters from the Chicago outfit who'd roughed him up. They were asserting he owed them $200,000, on top of his other debts. He insisted these guys were claimers, and they were dangerous, they were coming after him, and he was scared.

Jack was full of these stories and they were all blending into one, the debts he owed, the claimers who were claiming, the unreasonable mobsters and shylocks, the horses with great bloodlines and nothing but class who just narrowly missed by a nose in a photofinish heartbreaker, preventing him from realizing the longshot that would have been, should have been, could have saved his life. He wiped his brow. "I can't believe this is happening. Christ, things have tightened up. It's unreal," he said.

And then there were the threatening phone calls. Terri couldn't wait to get it all behind her. She wanted to tell him, look, you knew this could happen, you knew it ages ago but you kept on, you wouldn't stop, you kept looking for miracles instead of doing something to help yourself. But what was the use? Soon it would all be over and she'd be able to breathe again. And maybe there would even be a chance with Corrado? Oh, God, she hoped, hoped ...


11

It was all set. She'd be leaving for London tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. Jack's situation kept going further downhill fast. She couldn't wait to get away.

Terri heard his key in the lock. He entered, unshaven, wearing a wrinkled suit, his shirt crumpled and soaked with perspiration. In Texas they'd say he'd been ridden hard and put up wet. He was a wreck.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Let's grab some dinner."

On their way over to the restaurant, as usual Jack picked up his copy of The Morning Telegraph and a bunch of tout sheets. He was subdued at the table, poked at his food, did more smoking than eating, and appeared distracted.

She said, "The stuff you were telling me about those Chicago people — I heard rumors today, more bad news. You're in big trouble. Bigger than you told me."

He laughed. "The story of my life, at least the past few months of it." He was gazing at his drink, massaging his wrist.

She said, "I gather you already know you're a marked man."

"You exaggerate, you overreact." Jack stared into his drink. His voice was distant, and he kept glancing at his watch.

There was a lot she could say, but it had all been said already. What was the use? It was finished. "You won't face anything. You destroyed everything we had — or thought we had."

He was still staring and massaging, harder now. His jaw was set.

"You don't want to talk about it. You refused to change."

"Never mind," he said. "It doesn't matter any more. Maybe some day you'll understand." He looked at her with a peculiar expression, as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it, then turned away. "I've made a lot of mistakes," he admitted. "I apologize. It hasn’t been intentional."

There was a strange finality to his words, Terri thought. He picked some more at his food and kept glancing at his watch and looking at the door.

His hand was shaking as he lit another cigarette. "I can't believe this is happening to me," he kept repeating, over and over. But he still didn't want to talk about it. Instead, he said, "For what it's worth, I really care about you, I really do love you." Tears formed in his eyes. He looked away again, glancing furtively as if searching for someone, frowned and stood up abruptly, his eyes darting in ten directions at once.

"Come on, let's get outta here," he said.

"What's your hurry?"

He was emphatic about wanting to take a route back they never took. On 3rd Avenue, he suddenly turned to her and started quarreling, accusing her of disloyalty.

"Keep your voice down, Jack. People are staring."

"I don't give a shit!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

It happened suddenly. A man in a ski mask stepped squarely in their path and pointed a .22 calibre Smith and Wesson at Jack. Terri screamed. In a split second a shot rang out, the man scurried down the street out of sight and Jack was left clutching his stomach.

"Help me! I've been shot," he groaned. "Help, get a taxi."

Terri ran to the curb and hailed a cab. Bent over double, Jack staggered to the door. She helped him get in and tried to follow, but he held out an arm to restrain her. "I don't want you involved," he gasped. His face was white and contorted with pain. "I’m going to the hospital – I’ll be ok – I'll call you."

"But — "

"Go home!" he moaned, and leaned back in the seat as the car sped away.

Frantic, Terri checked every hospital in Manhattan but could find no trace of Jack. Had he been admitted under a false name? Then the next day she received a phone call from Eddie Chang, Jack's Chinese track crony, another gambling degenerate.

"I have bad news," Eddie said. "Jack's dead."

"Oh God!" Terri cried. "No! No!"


The strange details surrounding Jack's demise were unclear. When and where had the body been located? Terri hadn't been permitted to view it even for identification purposes.

Laura asked, "Was there an autopsy?"

"No," Terri said. "The person who notified me, Eddie Chang, said he didn't think that would be necessary, since it was death from a bullet wound and I saw it happen."

"Still — "

"I couldn't face all the red tape — a funeral's bad enough."

"Terri, if there's anything I can do..."

"Thanks, Laura, I just want to put all this behind me and move on. Remember, I'm due in London — it's all arranged, I have to go."

"Where is Jack's body now?"

"I don't know..." Terri answered vaguely, "at some incinerator, I think." And she started to cry softly.

"What about burial?" Laura persisted.

"Jack always wanted to be cremated," Terri said. "Eddie said he'd take care of it."

"And you never viewed the body?"

"I wasn't allowed to, and I didn't want to anyway. I wanted to remember Jack as he was."

When Victoria heard the news about Jack she phoned Terri with condolences and offered the services of her lieutenant, funeral director Rose F. Dyson, owner of the Shady Grove Mortuary in Valley Stream. "You know my woman the Rosie the Pelvis? Rosie'd do a bang-up job on Jack," Victoria enthused. "Ro's an artist. She can take any stiff and make it presentable. By the way, are Jack's earthly remains in any way disfigured? Ro’s capable of taking care of the most challenging problem that can ever happen to a corpse."

Terri told Vic how Eddie Chang had already made arrangements to cremate Jack, explaining that she was in shock and said yes to everything Eddie suggested. The best Vic could do was arrange for a memorial service for Jack at Rose's funeral parlor. But first came the funeral Eddie set up. It was a weird thing, officiated by another gambling pal, a crooked rabbi from the diamond district — nobody knew why, since Jack was Catholic, not Jewish — and Jack's ashes were scattered into Jamaica Bay, at the same spot, somebody noted, that Mayor La Guardia once dumped Frank Costello's slot machines.

It might seem a fitting end for Jack. Everyone said it was suspicious, though, that there was no death certificate, no body, only ashes. And who knew if they were human ashes? They could have come from the Jamaica recycling plant.

"It doesn't seem right," Terri agreed. "And I can't believe Jack's really dead. For some reason I have the feeling he's still alive."

"I know," Laura said. "Death is always hard to accept."

"He was targeted by the male mob. They got him. I saw it happen — but still I have the feeling he's alive."

"Death takes a long time getting used to — sometimes a year or more. That's how it was for me when my father was killed."

Terri had to put it behind her now, get on with her life. But wasn't it a peculiar irony that her husband, the man she had wanted to escape from, was now dead, gone from the firmament.

Though she was sad about Jack's violent end, in another way she was relieved it was over. It had all been such a nightmare.