MOB SISTERS - Dongs, Wongs, and Balls

A basket of fruit and a huge vase of flowers from Fiona awaited Terri's arrival at the Dorchester in London. Apologizing for having been unexpectedly called out of town on a family emergency, Fiona planned to return within a few days. Terri, tired from the trip, thought back on the past few days in New York.

Her schedule had been crowded with meetings with her lieutenants concerning massage parlors and escort services; talks with the realtor regarding space for Balls; interviewing decorators with an eye to developing a concept for Balls' interior; sessions at the library doing research on periods, again for Balls' decor; an art auction at Sotheby's; plus supervising the editing of two pornographic videos she had scripted and produced, one set in the Monet gardens at Giverny, the other a very tasteful "Beyond the Kama Sutra."

Laura's underboss Deborah Cook had explained to the four families details concerning a new issue the organization's Wall Street arm was pushing. "We tout this as a company with super potential," Deborah explained. "We move blocks of stock through Houston and Toronto. Keep the stock overnight and you can automatically jack up the price.

"A team of young clerks from the big board houses has been romanced and promised a small piece of the action. So we're controlling the box with no problems. We keep the market active through paper transactions in nominee names. The stock moves up to fifty bucks a share, and on every two thousand shares, we clear ninety grand.

"Once you have a stock in position you literally make the price. Some people end up losing their shirts, but the pros know the rules. They can go to Vegas and shoot craps if they want. Instead they're here on the street."

That brought Jack to mind. No, he hadn't repaid the loan yet. Terri twisted her Phi Beta Kappa key nervously. She would have to have a serious talk with Jack. It wasn't only the money; there were other difficulties as well.

Their Central Park West apartment building reeked of past glory and romance. Its Italianate entryway was marked by an extending Beaux-Arts marquee and Della Robbia Revival arch. Jutting out from the grilled door was a carved salamander, a symbol of François Premier, King of France. Jack didn't know it was a salamander or what the salamander stood for, let alone who François Premier was; he was totally oblivious to their building's history or architectural importance; he merely lived there because some gambling crony was moving out and offered the place to them.

That was one of the problems, his not appreciating beauty and culture, not even noticing his surroundings. For instance, when the gambling revenues began pouring in, Terri decided to redecorate. Now an expensive crystal chandelier suspended from the living room ceiling shed warm light on plum seating groups and on new mauve wall coverings. Jack was oblivious to the profusion of plants — cyclamen, yellow calla lilies, begonias, ferns — that graced the rooms in corners and hanging in Mexican terra cotta pots. She had chosen the hanging baskets of broad-leafed calanthea one by one. The furniture, the works of art gracing the walls, the thick expensive carpeting and rich drapes were all lost on Jack. His reaction to her efforts was to shrug his shoulders and say it didn't look much different from before, as he bent over his scorecard and muttered, "Let's see, Miami and Pittsburgh? It's gotta be Miami, and they gotta win by four — "

She'd been fence-sitting, pondering a separation of sorts, not yet ready, still hoping for an outside force to intervene, for something to happen, a miracle ...

In the beginning it had seemed close to idyllic, but now she just felt trapped. Their incompatibility had become more glaring. She was a gourmet while Jack eschewed her favorite dishes, saying he was strictly a meat and potatoes man. "Just give me a good hunk of steak, turn it over on the grill and serve it — crawling," he said. He was critical of her cultural interests, blamed her for being a snob and a "professional Texan." He had no interest in museums, fashion, theatre, music, film, books, plays, history or current events. His idea of a birthday present was a denim shirt from Macy's.

Lately, gambling had been absorbing Jack to an even more alarmingly neurotic degree. He would often have two and three games going on televisions and radios at once, all the while manning phones and taking bets. Sometimes he'd stay up an entire night, "studying", analyzing. More and more, his characteristic position was crouched over a pile of tout sheets.

A pattern set in. She went out of town on a deal, resolving upon return to work out a compromise; a romantic reunion held promise of improvement, things worsened again, she went away again, and the cycle repeated again. Something had to change.

The gambling was really getting to her. Like when she asked, "How are you?" his reply was, "The game fell right on the point spread. I broke even, so it was essentially a wasted day. But the thing I'm counting on is a big double. It's gotta happen soon."

"Jack. We have to talk."

"Good idea, honey. Why don't we grab dinner and do just that? I have something important to bring up."

You too? Terri thought.

As they walked over to the restaurant, Jack was scratching his head and muttering in bewilderment, "I can't figure it out, because I'm a very good handicapper, far better than anybody I know. I just can't fathom it."

"Where's my money?" Terri demanded. "You said you were going to pay me back by now."

"You'll get it, it's coming."

"I should've known. I guess I can kiss it goodbye. That's not fair."

"You'll get it already. Listen, my luck's bound to change, it's the law of averages. Gambling's something you gotta keep at. How else are you gonna recoup?"

"By quitting."

Jack shook his head. "It all comes in cycles," he explained. "Everything evens, and then you're hot again! Besides, you can't get bailed being a nickel and dimes bettor."

He had an excuse for everything. It was always somebody else's fault — the coach, the player, it was because of bagging or payola or point shaving, the spread, fixed races, or the jockey dropped the whip or whatever — anything but the truth. "The layoff man in K.C. screwed me, and that's where the whole trouble started," he complained again. Always somebody else, never him.

But hope was always just around the corner. "See, in a bird cage, any two out of three wins, you collect. The odds are good!" His dreams centered on making it with quinellas, perfectas, parlays, exactas, doubles and twin doubles; his life was all finagling, one long round robin.

Jack laid aside his Morning Telegraph to carve a two-pound slab of New York stripper at the neighborhood steakhouse. He said, "Honey, I've been thinking about something important that impacts both our lives. I've been thinking isn't it about time we thought seriously about a making a real commitment?"

"What sort of a commitment?" Terri asked warily, reluctant about the direction she had the feeling Jack was moving things.

Between bites of food, Jack said, "We're in love with each other, we share one another's business interests and we have a lot in common. So how would you feel about marrying me?"

Terri nearly choked on her swordfish. Was he trying to manipulate her? She put down her fork and said, "Jack, not now — with all the problems — "

"That's just it," he said. "There's a sense of commitment lacking with us. If we had a marital commitment, it could do wonders for our relationship."

"What do we have in common, Jack, other than sex, which by the way we haven't had in a dog's age? I mean, look at our tastes in food — "

He waved that objection aside. "Menus offer a wide variety. That's no problem."

"There are other considerations, too. You're always putting me down for my intellectual and cultural interests."

"Honey, I'm just teasing you."

Terri twirled her Phi Beta Kappa key. He said he loved her. Did she love him? In some ways, yes, though not like in the beginning — it was different now, there was more attachment and less illusion, and still this nagging problem that she continued to dream of a person Jack wasn't, a renaissance man, her perfect male counterpart, her all-in-all. Did he exist?

"Aside from everything else," Terri said, "need I remind you again how long it's been since we've had sex?"

"Must be a sure sign we're really in love," Jack grinned.

"It wasn't like that in the beginning."

"Sweetheart," he sighed, "it's just my money problems have put a damper on that department."

"Quit gambling, Jack. That would change everything."

"I did quit. I didn't place a bet in two days, then all I did was make a token wager on a sure thing. The problem right now is interest on debts is eating me alive. That's why I haven't felt in the mood for sex."

"It's been three weeks."

"Yeah, that was just about the time that bookie in Kansas City screwed me. Green Bay vs. the Rams. What a heartbreaker."

"How long do you expect this can continue?"

"Honey, everything's been going haywire — eventually it will all resolve, only right now if you'd lend me a small amount, I could satisfy this shark in the Bronx who's been hassling me and that would be a load off my mind."

"I already lent you thirty thousand dollars and haven't got that back yet."

"You can afford it. You're making a fortune on the gambling concessions and all the other deals you and your wise gal pals have going."

"You own 50% of our joint concessions, whereas I split the other 50% with three other people. It just doesn't make sense that you need me to bail you."

"I told you — my profits have all been going to the boys uptown and the vig's so high nothing's left over. Owing shylocks and layoff guys is draining, it takes a lot out of a person. If I could just get these guys off my back, I could pay the rest in installments myself. What your loan of even a measly ten or twenty would do now is change the whole picture."

Yes, she could afford it. She'd just made a killing in one of Deborah's stock deals and the numbers franchise was paying a handsome royalty, to say nothing of her take from the gambling and other ventures. It just seemed like throwing good money after bad, but Jack had tears in his eyes and she did feel guilty for not wanting to marry him. He was so pitiful right now, besides which, he'd been kind to her in the beginning when she needed it. Well, maybe just one more infusion of cash would do the trick ...

Terri hesitated, because she really didn't want to lend the money. She said, "If I knew this would get you out of the woods and you really would turn over a new leaf, Jack, that you'd stay away from the track, avoid poker, gin and football pools — "

"Honey, you have my word!"

"All right," Terri capitulated, "I'll lend you the money. But this is absolutely the last time. As far as marriage goes, it's not what I want at this point in time. I'm sorry, Jack."

The next day when Terri waved the check in front of him, a slow, relieved smile spread across his face. "Thanks, baby," he murmured in gratitude, reaching to take her in his arms. Quickly, they undressed and went to bed. Foreplay continued for a seemingly interminable time with no penetration until Terri could stand it no longer. Nothing could arouse Jack. He was soft as jelly. No use, he couldn't get it up. Terri lay back, frustrated and disappointed.

His hand shaking, Jack lit a cigarillo. He said, "Forgive me, baby. I promise by the time you get back from London all this will be behind us and we'll start a new life together. I love you. Please bear with me."


Waiting for Fiona to return, Terri busied herself at the British Museum and the Tate, Sotheby's and Christie's, doing more research on periods, looking for potential inspiration for Balls' decor. When she phoned London friends to say hello, she found herself invited to a number of intriguing soirees.

Enter international financier Corrado Sofino, suave, sexy, dashing, continental. She first noticed him across a crowded room at a fancy dress party at Christie's where the surroundings had been converted into a 19th century Deauville with a 2 month old tiger prowling among the guests. Corrado appeared to be with a tarty looking statuesque blond, obviously Scandanavian or German. The next time they ran into each other was at a lavish party at Claridge's. Opaline lights filtering down gave a benign cast to his face, but did not serve to make his tall blond date look any less hookerish. What did a man like this see in someone like her, Terri mused.

The following evening she went to a medieval costume party as a unicorn. He appeared once again, wearing a purple sombrero with an orchid in his buttonhole. One wondered what this had to do with the middle ages.

"Do you know Mr. Sofino?"

Ah, Italian. No, Sicilian. Terri turned to face the stranger. The distinction was especially in the eyes — you noticed them — sharp and piercingly blue, ever probing, assessing, relishing, becoming soft and clouded over, then turning slightly amoral, though no less simpatico, just hard to read, again very Sicilian.

As he took her hand, pressed it to his lips and kissed it, his gaze did not wander. Something inside her was moved, shaken up, and she had a very strong suspicion that they would fall deeply, madly in love.

When he heard she was from Texas, he said, "I know all about Texas. I can even sing Texas. I know chuck wagon stew and short ribs and pinto beans, Texas chili -- "

Terri laughed, charmed. "How is it you know so much, Mr. Sofino?"

"Oh, I know — Dr. Pepper's and Gilley's beer and Pearl's. I like it all. In Texas they cook with lard, and they say the west begins in Ft. Worth."

"My home town!"

"How wonderful. I have great nostalgia for the American West, I love the image of the Western desperado. It is very romantic, exactly what I should like to be were I not Sicilian."

"Well, you could come visit when I'm in Texas, and I could make you an honorary Texan."

"Ah, yes! So you don't live full time in Texas, then?"

"At the moment, no, but one of these days I may return to stay."

He smelled of pungent Italian soap, a blend of almonds and rose water. It was nothing short of a coup de foudre — the coiled, supple, sensual Corrado knocked her dead. It wasn't merely the excitement of his physical appearance or the glamour of the world he moved in, it was also his mind, his heart, his soul, his essence. He had dimension. He was cultured, world-traveled, sophisticated. He spoke five languages, and he had a toughness the Sicilians called figatu, meaning liver.

He smoked Oxi Bithue extra suaves, Uruguayan cigarettes, very rare, difficult to obtain, smuggled through Egypt and Argentina, that exuded an irresistible aroma, the most alluring sexual fragrance that drove her wild. Terri, relishing the imaginative meeting of minds and the undeniable magnetism between them, foresaw promise of fruition. She was smitten.

She spotted him at yet another party on a revolving dance floor where peacocks strutted in gilded cages. A Palladian bridge led to a champagne and milk bar set up on the flood-lit grounds of a country home with a prize Guernsey cow tethered in front. They served turtle soup, Welch lamb and lemon souffle. He wore a midnight blue mohair dinner suit. Although he was thin and of medium height, there was something very commanding, even imperious about him that made him seem larger. One noticed his expert tailoring, how he usually dressed in light colors, creams and greys, wonderful mellow beiges and soft browns. The sartorial signature was usually Milanese, now and then British, the total look distinctive, one of a kind. But that ever-present Nordic slut — what was he doing with the likes of her?


The instant Fiona Stonemartin-Cartwright crossed the threshold at Brown's Hotel dining room, Terri knew who she was. The lively, smart, titian-tressed former journalist had exactly the elan and esprit that Terri would have expected of someone who had tired of working with deadlines and disgruntled editors, seen a need and filled it in the form of a fabulously successful stud service for women in the heart of Mayfair.

The two chatted like old friends. It wasn't until they were midway into lunch, avocado salad for Terri, eggs florentine for Fiona, that they took up the topics of Dongs & Wongs and Balls.

"Where do you get your studs?" Terri wanted to know.

"Ducky, the men line up for blocks," Fiona confided. "It's not a problem. The unemployment situation in Britain created a natural market — we've had scores of out of work coal miners up from Newcastle, for instance, applying. Strong, well-built blokes have a natural bent. Then you have those not yet established young men who aren't ready to get involved with the kind of women who expect marriage — future physicians and barristers, for instance. But the most surprising thing was totally unforeseen — "

"What's that?" Terri asked.

Fiona leaned forward confidentially. "We've acquired a large contingent of eager participants who are older, well-to-do established professional men from all walks of life, as well as a large body of upper crust members of the aristocracy — volunteers, almost."

"Really? How did you attract this group?" Terri asked.

"Well, ducky, you know how terribly constricting social convention can be — marriage, living together, taking a mistress, even having a girlfriend or a fling can be perilous for a man these days. Less and less can one afford risks; all relationships seem to be traps."

"I understand, Fiona," Terri said. "Most people are looking for a situation they can control, like this."

"Exactly. There's so much heavy-handedness in qualifiers to wade through, that too often a caprice that prompted desire is already killed, all the spontaneity and fun has gone out of a sensual experience before it starts. So it seems what has developed with Dongs & Wongs is that two mutually attracted people can come together without fear of consequences.

"For instance, let's say a woman wants to get it on with a particular M.P. She can request him, we'll ring him up and invite him over, he'll be paid 300 pounds for his services, which is flattering to the man. Even in this day and age of liberated women it's still largely the man who foots the bills, so how many chaps won't jump at a chance to have their egos stroked by being paid for their favors? A man loves the idea, brags about it to his friends, and they all want in on the action.

"Consequently, a man's participation in a Dongs & Wongs assignation has become a status symbol at all the fashionable Mayfair parties. I've had earls and lords ring me up asking to be included. And although they may not like to boast, many are even willing to offer a provocatively enticing thumbnail sketch of their assets and abilities."

After lunch, Fiona and Terri headed in a taxi over to Dongs & Wongs. The fashionable ladies' bordel was located in a six story townhouse on a quiet, sparsely-trafficked Mayfair street. Should one glance upward at its entryway, one would notice a discreet marble sculpture of two erect penises, one circumcised, the other not, small carved lettering reading "Dongs" decorating the circumcised organ, the word "Wongs" written on the uncircumcised one, with an ampersam (&) between the two. The message was subtle and tasteful.

Inside, the establishment's Victorian decor was understated. A quiet soothing atmosphere prevailed with piped in classical music (this particular moment, Ives' Symphony # 1 in D minor), the layout consisting of a series of soundproof bedrooms as well as parlors, bars, a library and billiard room, commons, and a kitchen. Furnishings included king size beds with attractive headboards of varying designs, silk and velvet-covered chairs and loveseats, grandfather clocks, and étagères. There were private elevators in addition to secret entrances and exits for trysting guests to avoid being seen. Fiona also showed Terri a connecting tunnel to the houses next door and in back.

Fiona, a distant cousin of novelist Barbara Cartwright, distant relative as well (albeit many times removed) of the royals, thus in an inside position vis à vis British society, felt it her duty to catalog information that might prove of possible interest in generations to come, regarding the physical endowments of her illustrious clientele. She showed Terri a computer program containing comments, notations and graphs on the assorted dongs and wongs of the male performers who had passed through the portals of the establishment: "Lord Pentland's dong, for instance, is rather slender and angular, whereas the Earl of Fauxhall's wong has a wart on its very tip ... and as for the Duke of Hampshire ... "

Terri was excited. She knew there was a niche market here for women who were either bored with marriage, without a steady bed partner, or merely looking for kicks, variety, and adventure. But she hadn't thought about this enterprise as also a means of screening potential liaisons, bypassing social conventions of dating, dinner and b.s.

"As I see it," she told Fiona while the two of them were sipping Harvey's Bristol Creme in one of Dongs & Wongs' parlors, an attractive room decorated in Victorian shades of puce and ashes and roses, "this can be a splendid way of circumventing social restrictions, a shortcut to avoid game playing."

"Definitely," Fiona agreed. "It's all honest and above board and nothing beyond the hour is expected. Pay the 300 pounds and that's the entire commitment, but very often it does serve as an impetus to more, much more, that never would have happened otherwise. Most people are not interested in getting caught in a net, and the fact that they're free to indulge their fantasies without entanglement is very attractive."

"So they can get entangled in spite of themselves."

"Yes, they can."

"Hmmm — "

"I see your mind working, Terri. Let me guess. You have a man you'd like us to ring up for you?"

"How did you guess, Fiona?"

"I've been in this business long enough to spot all the signals. Who is he?"

She told Fiona about Corrado, how he had affected her in the deepest sense. "He's been seen all over London with a German or Scandanavian — shall I say dish?" she confided. "The woman looks like a hooker to me, though perhaps I'm being unfair — "

"Corrado Sofino — Italian — "

"You know him?"

"He's new on the London scene, but I know who he is. Wait a bit, luv." Fiona rang for Ali Bhutto, Dongs & Wongs' Pakistani major-domo, and sent him out to fetch Tattler.

"I believe his picture is in this issue," Fiona explained.

"In a way you could describe this Teutonic-looking woman as drop dead gorgeous, because she's tall, striking and blond, but to me she looks cheap," Terri said.

"Those Nordic types do have that handicap sometimes," Fiona agreed, "they can look cheap. I know just what you mean."

"I wondered what an obviously cultivated man of the world, so in gamba, would want with a slutty type like that. She lacks class, but she does seem to have her hooks in him nevertheless."

"You know, now that you mention it, I believe I've seen this woman as well. She's about 30, with a big chest, and I agree, she does look like a hooker. Italian men often go for her type, but a woman like that can't fulfil a Mediterranean man's deepest needs and fantasies. This bitch shouldn't pose a problem."

"Fiona," Terri said, her insides churning with hope and anticipation, "do you think you could arrange it?"

"Why, I will personally take care of it myself, Terri," Fiona promised, "first thing tomorrow."

"So what happens? He just moseys on over, takes off his pants, then I pull out the three hundred pounds and — "

"And the rest is up to you, ducky. It's what you make of it."

Ali returned with the magazine. Sure enough, there was Corrado's picture together with a caption identifying "Mr. Corrado Sofino, noted Italian financier, taking luncheon and sherry at 41 Bishopsgate," among the ancestral paintings and Windmill & Whiteman grandfather clocks with the venerated partners of Hambros. Corrado was quoted as saying he was delighted to be continuing an old tradition, since after all, Italy's relationship with Hambros dated to Cavour and the Risorgimento. The article also noted how Corrado had been entertained recently at several staid old clubs, among them White's, Brook's and Pratt's. It left no doubt of his acceptance in the uppermost reaches of City finance.


*****

Corrado

Admittedly, this was crazy. But from the moment she laid eyes on Corrado, something just welled up inside her, this immense feeling of longing and need, so that everything else receded in importance. All that mattered was connecting. And now that Fiona had arranged it, Terri was nervous.

Fiona told her to put the other woman out of mind. "Men all have their security blankets, they all have to have a mother/maid/hearth figure at home, and if they're rich enough, an accoutrement on their arm for public appearances, but nine times out of ten neither woman is what he truly wants — men are always looking for something other than what they have. You, Terri, can be that something else to him, that point of happiness, that satisfaction of his deepest fantasies."

The accommodations were comfortable and inviting — cut velvet red flocked wall covering, four poster bed with red velvet canopy and drawable portieres, huge armoire and armchair, private bath with bidet, large tub on golden legs. Prokofiev's Suite from The Love of Three Oranges sounded from the stereo. As Terri waited, she wondered if she'd made the right decision to wear her Victoria's Secret pushed up bra, garter belt, black hosiery, black velvet choker, high heels and satin lounging robe for the occasion.

Checking her appearance in the mirror for the dozenth time, she jumped upon hearing his knock. He stood at the door, smiling, kissed her hand and said, "Hello, my Texas rose." She admitted him and he took a seat in the armchair. Terri sat down at the edge of the bed.

If he felt this rendezvous was unusual, he gave no signs. Just what was going through his mind? Had he ever done this before? Did he really want to do it with her? Nervously, Terri tugged at her Phi Beta Kappa key.

He was wearing a tasteful mocha brown suit, purchased, he said, at Blades, a fashionable tailoring outfit at the end of Saville Row. He was sunny, playful, witty. Like so many Italians, he projected lightheartedness on the surface, with a deep tragic sense of life grounded underneath. She envisioned a whole adventurous new world opening up.

"Your suit is divine," Terri said, "so beautifully fitted. Your being a `man in the mocha brown suit' reminds me of `J. Alfred Prufrock' — you know, T.S. Eliot — "

"Yes, I know." He smiled, rose, and came to the bed. Terri quickly reached inside her push up bra and offered him three hundred pounds. He took it with a sly grin and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

He said, "I am your willing and eager stud. I will do everything you wish. I am here to gratify your every desire."

When first he took her in his arms and held her, she emitted a long, deeply felt sigh and began to tremble. It was all so reckless yet so utterly right, as if she had been waiting for him her entire life. She wanted to swiftly grasp this moment and never let go.

It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. At first it was pure lust, but then how much more. The wildness turned to tenderness, her soft tears flowed unbidden as if from the river of life, from a source never before realized, a depth of longing, a place long hidden. It was as if having known one another in many lifetimes they were now reunited after centuries apart. What was this feeling of need and desire she had harbored forever, not knowing who could satisfy it, only faintly imagining him in the deepest recesses of her soul, almost a fleeting image, scarcely a recognition, finally connecting.

But there was sadness too, a thought that though they were destined to be together, something might prevent their realizing the ultimate destiny together. What was this force she didn't understand, the terrible longing for this man?

The sex was too amazing to describe; the release, when it came, of such an astonishing order — exalted, melted down. Afterward, he too seemed overcome by the experience.


He invited her for lunch the next day at Alvaro's Restaurant in King's Road, Chelsea, where they dined on poached salmon, potato cutlets and loganberry ice cream. She dressed for the occasion in one of her best colors, teal blue. During lunch, he daringly reached his hand down through her skirt till his finger found her vagina. She liked an adventurous man. She liked everything about him. She loved him madly.

In that first erotic luncheon together was the seedling of what he could become in her life, with the imaginative meeting of minds, the promise of full surrender to a man who would put his kingdom on display for her. She was so utterly drawn to him, touching hands, holding eyes, as he spoke about his native Sicily and the supple, angular Mediterranean face creased into a smile. "You will like Sicily, it is very beautiful," he said. "It is a land of contrasts — of orange blossoms and lava eruptions and mysterious cliffs and grottos, of elusive people. A closed society, often dangerous."

She smiled and raised her glass. They drank each others' essences. He took her hand and guided it to his crotch. How had he known she wanted it there at that very moment?

After lunch, he said, "I want you."

"I want you too. Have I spoiled you? You should have another 300 pounds, of course. But wait — let me double your fee, to show how wonderful I think you are!"

So it was Dongs & Wongs again, a different room, this one decorated in rococo style, with ornate gold putti swooping down from all corners. The experience of being together surpassed even the previous time in excitement and fulfillment. 900 pounds in two days and worth every last farthing. Never, never in her life had she experienced a man like this one.

They would meet again soon when he was next in New York, where he kept an apartment at the Pierre. She would be hearing from him. He would phone. Flying home, Terri settled back in her seat, feeling relaxed and content, evoking Corrado, with Jack seeming a million miles away, gone out of her life forever, almost as if he had never existed ... how could there ever have been anyone but Corrado?


She didn't expect Jack to be home at two in the afternoon, figuring he'd be out at the track. Unfortunately, she thought wrong. He waited almost as if he knew she was coming.

"Where were you?" he demanded. "I've been so worried. I phoned London, they said you'd checked out — I was frantic."

"Business took longer than planned," Terri said, annoyed at his prying. "I had to change my flight."

"Why didn't you call? You should have let me know."

"I was tied up. I couldn't."

"Doing what?" He acted like it was his right to know, like he ought to be keeping tabs on her.

"A financial deal," Terri said evenly, and went to the bedroom with her hand luggage.

Jack followed. To her surprise, of all things he was in the mood for sex — said desire had returned full force. "Let's go to bed, baby," he murmured softly, holding out his arms.

"I — not now, Jack."

"Honey, I've been going out of my fucking mind I was so horny. God, did I miss you."

"Did you win at the track?" Terri asked, suspicious.

"Yeah, how'd you guess? Listen, baby, I apologize for what happened. I don't know what got into me. I'll make it up to you — what's wrong? Aren't you feeling well?"

"I'm tired. I've had a long trip." Freeing herself from his attempted advances, Terri started unpacking.

"Well, ok; we'll save it for tomorrow, then," he said, disappointed.

Sooner or later she'd have to come clean; maybe best to plunge in now. Terri said, "Jack, I really think we have to re-assess our relationship. A lot's missing, I need time to myself, and — "

"Listen, relationships all have their strengths and weaknesses, but you look at the bottom line."

"I've looked, and I believe I know what's the right decision." Terri paused, trying to ease the blow. "For now, I need to be on my own, and I'd like to live here in this apartment by myself."

"Of all the nerve. We're only living here because my friend gave it to me. If we break up, and I hope we don't, I stay. I want the apartment."

"What makes you think you'll be able to afford the rent? Then we'd both lose out."

"You want to leave, you leave," he said. "I'm not budging. I don't understand what's happened to you. What could've gone on in London to change you so drastically?"


The next day, Terri signed a short term lease on a two bedroom furnished apartment on Park Avenue in the 60's. It was a relief to be in control of her destiny again. Amazing how stultifying the relationship with Jack had made her feel. Just to be alone again seemed a luxury.

She was flipping through some Italian magazines when she spied, splashed across one cover in prominent red lettering, the words "Dossier: Mafia." It was a special report dealing with the Italian mafia and their American counterparts. Her eyes nearly popped out when she noticed in the centerfold layout a photo of Corrado! Mafia?!

Corrado Sofino was the most feared and powerful man in western Sicily, a member of the "high mafia," the strongest mafia force in Italy, said the article. The members of this mafia, anonymous and untouchable, were seldom identified.

When his father died two years ago, Corrado had ascended to the head of his family, assuming control of a very large chunk of the island of Sicily. All the visible old mafia bosses from the region answered to him now. Corrado was on his way toward making the cosche, or Sicilian mafia groups, a major international financial force. Branching out from his family-owned Palermo bank, having already gained a reputation for being the Sicilan gnome behind Roman and Milanese deals, he was assuming prominence on the City of London money scene, kicking up his heels in the New York markets, and had just become the official outside investments counselor to the Vatican. To make a long story short, Corrado was the secret power behind all the capos pictured on these pages, and he was out to change the honored society from a local phenomenon into a giant global empire, with himself as its leader.

The Italian magazine said that in London they were unaware of his shady Sicilian connections, that he was leading a double life. Terri put down the magazine and remembered his tenderness, the passion they had shared, and was overtaken by a strange new thrill, a complicity that she was part and parcel of an enormous clandestine force.

So they had more in common than she'd even suspected. Corrado had stirred her as no other man had. He was ever so much a part of her. Now she understood him better. It was meant to be.