MOB SISTERS - Part II - (Beirut 2)

The entire flight from New York to Beirut, she could think of nothing but Cestari, the appeal of the man himself and what she knew about him. He owned mining companies, shipyards, construction companies, a chain of restaurants and gambling casinos; he was a decorated war hero, an elected official from Corsica, former Chamber of Deputies member from Zicavo who also controlled the waterfront of Marseilles. Owner of the well-known Club Haussman in Paris, he also had a Paris bar called Trois Canards in addition to a restaurant in Corsica, Verité, and the Café de la Paix as well as a bar in Marseilles called les Organdiers. One of his restaurants was mentioned in all the tourist guides as being one of Paris' leading attractions. When in the French capital he could usually be found taking late night suppers at Fouquet.

Victoria welcomed the familiar sights, sounds and smells of Lebanon's great capital. Ravi Shankar-sounding sitar music to a dervish tempo blaring, skinned lamb carcasses hung in the bazaar stalls, lovely goldsmith-fashioned jewelry on display everywhere told her she'd arrived where she wanted to be. Beirut was a fabulous city of which in a very short time she had become extremely fond; in fact, she might even consider moving here some day when she'd earned her retirement stripes. After checking into the St. Georges, she waited till evening when she joined a party of Americans and taxied thirty minutes out of the city to the largest casino in the middle east.

Jounieh, a small village of stone houses with arched windows and red tile roofs, lay facing a soaring cliff whose 2000 foot summit was crowned with a white statue of Our Lady of Lebanon. A complex of theatres, restaurants and casinos was built into the mountains overlooking shimmering Jounieh Bay below. Ascending to the Casino des Collines via funicular, Victoria and her party arrived at the impressive structure. Across the bay, the lights of Beirut flickered in the distance. The entire building seemed to reverberate with blatant raw sexuality and excitement. Arches, mosaics and chandeliers predominated inside, where a posh international clientele was dressed expensively in jewels, furs and evening attire.

Dozens of cages and goldfish bowls housed a variety of topless cabaret girls, their genitals discretely covered in skimpy g strings or black diamond and autumn haze mink merkins, the latter giving their wearers the illusion of silky pubic hair five layers thick. More showgirls cavorted nude and semi-nude in mini railway cars that passed by the gaming tables, where under the glittery lights the guests played $2000 a throw crap stakes.

She spotted Cestari immediately, going about his job hosting. She watched him greet five international concubines at the baccarat area and caught his attention. She smiled. He smiled back. The maitre d' led her party to a ringside table flanked by reflecting pools. At the center of the great room, a huge banquet was laid out.

One side of the long buffet displayed western fare: everything from truffled foie gras and caviar to lobster and beef Wellington. Cestari idled on the opposite side by the spread of mideast cuisine. Called a Lebanese mezeh, dishes were all artistically arranged with flowers and greens on gleaming silver and gold trays.

Attracting his attention once again with a smile and provocative thrust of her hips, Vic grabbed some dinnerware and began piling up from the sumptuous feast. From the selection of hors d'oeuvres she chose flat Arab bread, huge Damascus green olives soaked in lye, traditional Lebanese dishes of hummus, tahinah and baba ghannouj, and whatever else looked interesting. She was just spooning herself some kibbeh Aleppan style, liberally seasoned with mounds of hot red peppers, when Cestari's deep basso profundo sounded from behind.

"I see you smoke blonds," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"American cigarettes. We call them blonds because of the light color of the tobacco. Won't you try one of mine?"

"Thank you, but later. I'm concentrating on the mezeh now."

"If I may make a suggestion, Madame?"

"Of course," Victoria purred, turning slowly and bestowing on him her most dazzling smile. "I'd be delighted."

Hovering close, she sniffed out his appeal. An ineluctable aura of homme fatale clung, the suave matinee idol good looks and throaty speech inflections became him, yet it was the predominance of the icy, menacing quality under the facade that drew her so irresistibly. What was that unusual aroma he exuded -- a combination of musk, patchouli and yes, an added ingredient, some very secret, passionate erotic attractant.

In a voice like velvet, he said, "You must try this delicious Egyptian caviar. It comes from the female grey mullet, called the buri. Her o-var-ies," he caressed the word, "are dried in the sun, then pressed into long amber bars."

With a large strong finger he indicated another choice. "Desert truffles! It is the wild desert storms that give these their mild succulence. Believe me, nothing in Perigord can compare."

He insisted she try na'ud, shark boiled for many hours; lukhmah, puree of stingray; and above all she must not miss the tiny rare fig-pecking birds that were to be eaten bones and all, he said. Then what would she like sent to the table? A 1955 Chateau Latour, peut-être, or a 1947 Cheval Blanc? Or then again, possibly an extraordinarily fine 1929 Nicholas Rolin would be the most appropriate choice. His compliments, of course.

Victoria, no oenophile, decided, "Why don't you surprise me, Mr. Cestari?"

"I have the feeling that very little would surprise you," he answered. "But you must call me Charles." This guy was dangerous to her independence, a menace to dormant emotions nobody had ever aroused.

True to his word, he sent them a very fine champagne, a 1959 Chateau d'Yqem. Victoria imbibed, enjoyed her food, and in short order was up once more, over at the mezeh, inspecting the desserts. She felt Cestari's eyes behind her and knew he was approaching again. This time he suddenly closed an outsized hand over her shoulder.

He said, "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"Don't worry," Vic replied. "I'm not."

He guided her through the array of desserts: candied fruits and honey-drenched, sugar-dusted semolina pastries filled with creamy cheese, crushed walnuts, hazelnuts, slivered almonds and Aleppan pistachios; nightingale nests and Lebanese clementines: flower-scented custards, little pancakes flavored with aniseed, cinnamon, lemon juice and sesame seeds.

"What do you recommend, Charles?" she asked.

"Saliq," he replied, "is our most recherché dessert, a wonderful hot pudding with cardamom scented with a soupçonof mustaka -- that is gum arabic, the aromatic resin of the mastic tree. You may know this spice is even more expensive than luban..."

"Luban?"

"Frankincense to you. Ah, saliq, if you have never tasted any, is a wonderful Damascene delicacy. Of course, we order most of our desserts from Damascus. As you probably know, Damascus' Port Said Street since the time of Haroun-al-Raschid has been the sweets capital of the world."

"Haroun-al-Raschid?" Victoria repeated. The name did have a familiar ring. "Is he in the oil business?"

Cestari laughed. "I like a woman with a sense of humor," he said.

She waved her cigarette, purposely blowing the smoke in his face and relishing her power to distort his nerves and jar his judgment. She measured her effect and knew she fascinated him. She could feel his body heat traveling toward her in waves and knew he was savage with tension and desire. "You seem to know a lot about mid east food, Charles."

"It has become an interest," he acknowledged, his eyes steady.

"Among your other — interests — there's one in particular that brings me here tonight," Victoria said, seizing the opening.

"Ah, yes? And what might that be?"

"I am a friend of Maurice Hirsch," she said, using the magic name as an entré . "You understand? We — my associates back in the United States and I — are looking to make arrangements. Maurice said you would know what I mean."

"Mais oui, je comprends."

"Maurice said you were the man to supply me with everything I need, in terms of large quantity at a special discount price. I'm authorized to speak for my people." Her voice lowered. "I came to Beirut alone — especially to see you."

"You say you are alone — " He stepped closer, eyeing the table where she'd been sitting.

"Acquaintances." Victoria waved the table's occupants aside. "I'm unattached — and available."

"Ah, perhaps then you would like to meet later on? Say in about two hours?"

"I'd love to," Victoria said.

Slowly she sipped champagne as the steady stream of semi-nude houris in cable cars glittered and sparkled past her line of vision. It was all sex and Sodom, larceny and flash here, sleazy and splendiferous, Gomorrah, Tangier, Hong Kong, the Casbah and the Reeperbahn all rolled into one, and she was on top. Relaxed, she poked at a few bites of the desserts, then decided to stroll through the casino to await the fated and fast-approaching rendezvous.

As she wandered by the spinning roulette wheels, the strong recollection of Cestari's scent assailed her nostrils, and she was filled with the aura of his mysterious eroticism. Her anticipation was reaching toward a crescendo.

All eyes were fastened on that small white ball bouncing its way into and out of slots. Victoria decided to play. She stayed with red even, increasing, decreasing, amusing herself trying to pin down the percentages. She played 39, placing one or more chips on every spin; at the end of an hour her number had come up four times and she had won close to five thousand dollars.

She quit while she was ahead, watched more action in the big area, then drifted over to the chemin de fer room where a rich tuxedo-clad Japanese held the bank. A sign reading "pas de limite" was suspended over the table. Each gold plaque was worth ten thousand dollars. There was a half a million bucks worth of plaques in the game now. She watched the cards spin out of the shoe. In three draws, the Jap broke the other players and the stickman pushed a pile of gold plaques across the table to him. Victoria moved on.

When the witching hour arrived, Cestari suggested instead of taking his usual front row table that they be seated in back where it would be more private. Here they were only peripherally aware of the flashy floor show in progress under the bright kleigs. Over his favorite late supper of plump oysters on the half shell washed down with ice cold Dom Perignon, he related something of his fascinating if checkered past.

Although he didn't mention it, she knew that because of his record in SEDCE, a special actions section of Intelligence known as the barbouzes, he had immunity from prosecution as the largest heroin dealer in France.

Vic had drained her champagne and was ready for a refill. Cestari motioned to the waiter. Over the rim of her glass, she gazed at him, seductive invitation in her eyes. He moved closer to take her hand and cradle it to his body. It did not seem that they were in a public place, but that they were alone, just the two of them. When she reached for a cigarette from her platinum initialed case, he lit it for her with a cheap Zippo, which she accepted as if it were Van Cleef and Arpels. Inhaling, then exhaling a long smokey zigzag, she kept her eyes focused on him for a long moment.

"Tell me about yourself," he said. "You are a fascinating woman. I want to know everything about you."

When she gave him the line on herself she couldn't help boasting about the unique organization of women to which she owed allegiance.

"Merde! I cannot believe it. Is all this not a dangerous life for a woman?"

"I've got a crew of enforcers to insure peace on my turf," she replied.

"Merde!" he exclaimed again, with admiration.

"We're always looking for worthy places to invest our money. We're willing to take big risks for big rewards. I'm authorized to negotiate and close. Wanna talk numbers?"

Picking up his cues, he had no reluctance to explain the operation of the truc blanc, the white stuff. It was very simple, he said. "Turkey point of origin, morphine base in TIR trucks crossing Bulgaria into Munich, preclearance at Customs, no problem through Germany. We await the order, then ship base to our labs in Marseilles for conversion. Et ensuite, on to Canada and New York, generally using South America as entrepot... "

Accelerated heartbeats raced inside her body. He was negotiating with her now on shipment, quantity, frequency, price, commitment -- he was even saying how he was expecting to deal with her exclusively. Victoria basked in a glow of satisfaction. Wait till the others heard who was calling the shots.

Cestari stared deliberately at the open neck of her gown and said, "Everything you require can be swiftly expedited. Before you leave Beirut we shall settle all the details, you and I."

Victoria welcomed the feeling of the cool, bubbly golden liquid slipping down her throat, forming warm circles in her stomach. She opened her Cartier case again and offered Cestari one of her "blond" cigarettes. He lit two and handed her one. For several moments they smoked silently together. Then he reached to draw her hand to his heart, so she could feel his quickening. "This is what you do to me," he whispered. And then he leaned over to ask what sounded like a non sequitur. "Do you know the opera Un Ballo in Maschera, 'The Masked Ball,' by Giuseppe Verdi?"

What the hell did that have to do with the price of eggs? "Sure, by reputation. Never in the flesh."

A small bead of saliva adhered to his mouth. "How would you like to attend a very special private performance?" His eyes gleamed with lubricious expectation.

"Could this be something beyond a mere musical event you have in mind, Charles?"

He smiled. "This, I promise you, will be unlike any other version of the opera you have ever heard. It is un bal masqué à partouze — tu comprends, ma petite?" His hand was shaking slightly and his eyes shone with a wicked glint.

"My French may not be the greatest, but I'm game for just about anything."

"Très bien. I think you will not be disappointed, but very happy, ma chérie." Vic didn't know then that partouze was French for a sex show, an orgy.

"À La Jeunesse Dorée," Cestari instructed his driver as they stepped into a midnight blue Mercedes limo. A haze hung over the fertile plateau between the Lebanon and the Anti-Lebanon. An aroma of jasmine, bougainvillea and oleander permeated the air.

Cestari lit a cheroot. Staring straight ahead, puffing on his cigar without so much as a glance at her, he reached for her hand and ever so casually placed it on his bulging crotch. The shock of his immense swelling, its stiffness and bulk, brought an audible gasp from her lips, but still he went on smoking, as if oblivious to her reaction.

He was talking about taking her sightseeing. They would visit the ruins of Balbek, he said, and the casinos of Zahle, where there were so many openair restaurants situated along streams and waterfalls in the Bekaa Valley. You could get wonderful yogurt there, he said, and also lemonade and Arab pastry. This was a region of vineyards and cliffs. At the tip of the valley stood the ancient Temple of Jupiter and the site of a music festival where a famous American jazz artist was now appearing.

As he spoke, he was slowly opening the buttons on the fly of his white tuxedo pants. His erection, bare now, was absolutely enormous. The sudden eroticism of his unexpected exhibitionism overcame her. She had never met a man more detached yet more seductive.

"Suces-moi — suck me," he commanded, directing her face toward his engorgement.

"Your chauffeur," Victoria protested.

"It is two way glass," he said, the urgency in his voice increasing.

She bent over to take him in her mouth and he watched in silence, through clenched teeth, until they pulled up in front of the establishment called the Jeunesse Dorée.

The strains of Verdi's opera escaped from inside. At the entrance one's attention was immediately diverted from the imposing, huge central skylight to the man who stood under it, naked but for a feathered mask. Baton in hand, he was conducting a non-existent orchestra in a recording of the opera.

The sensuality of the ambiance and its assault on the senses overwhelmed her. The Jeunesse Dorée's high ceilinged interior embodied a certain Parisian decadence of the hôtel particulier in its eclectic decor of art deco, fin de siècle and neo-oriental. The Tiffany skylight and soft lamps blended to create subdued roseate lighting. A domed cage of latticed brass housed an assortment of multi-colored tropical birds. There were coromandel screens and Chinese paintings set in recessed Japanese paneling, and smoky mirrors tinted in variegated pastel hues. Near the bird cage stood three circular beds and a fish tank with flashing lights.

They were handed a pair of plumed sequined masks. As Victoria's eyes became accustomed to the light, she saw that an orgy was in progress, its participants, nude but for identical bird-like masks, copulating vigorously to the tune of Verdi's lilting music.

After they had been seated, Charles ordered her a liqueur called Shaybah, or "old man," that he said contained wormwood. Victoria drank, feeling her stomach burn as she watched the erotic gyrations on stage, where everything was becoming a blur of cocks, cunts, feathers and sequined asses. Cestari sat sipping Pernod without comment, both amused and aroused, but dispassionate. He was a tough customer, all right, hard as nails. She was drawn to the icy still inbuilt menace, to the chill of this man. Make me melt, she was telling him with her eyes, you're the guy who can do it for me.

She sucked on her cigarette, exhaling the fumes in gulps. Watching together and sipping cordials with exotic names in an ambiance of the forbidden was at once lascivious, tender, salacious and sweet. Charles' restraint amazed her. How the hell did he manage to stay so stiff-so cool, to make no move to enter into the action — what was it they called this, a partouze? Wild.

The pulsating pleasure of bulging cocks and hairy cunts, flashing lights, music and wormwood were all conspiring to make her head spin. Nothing equaled the eroticism of Cestari's fierce eyes sweeping over her, baleful and dangerous.

She wondered if he understood the significance and felt the symbolism that this ritual was binding them together. Their syndicates would meld, the two of them unite. She and he were the keys.

God, she wanted him. She felt her hand that was resting on his thigh collect heat from his body. She caught his seductive smile as he whispered, "We will go to my home now." It was a statement, not a question. "You will do everything I ask." That was more than a statement, it was practically an edict. A strange, moist warm thrill came over Victoria. How was it this man understood secret places, parts of her no one else had ever reached?

Ahead lay his villa, a near eastern confection of moorish arches, towers and balconies. A pack of ferocious sounding dogs was barking inside the iron gates. Cestari had dismissed the chauffeur and was at the wheel now himself. They drove into an underground garage that housed a powder blue Jaguar and an apple red custom made Lamborghini.

Cestari led her upstairs to the mirrored, tufted red velvet master bedroom. His smile was a malevolent glint of gold against ivory. Silently, he put on a Frank Sinatra record, "Strangers in the Night," and invited her to dance. Through open French doors they glided out to the balcony. It was very romantic. The air smelled of pine and palm. He pulled at the back of her dress and undid the zipper. In just moments she wiggled out of her clothes and stood before him in naked glory.

"Ah, magnifique!" he exclaimed. She had totally forgotten she was wearing a small, amusing dinner hat, the same one she'd worn at the Black Angus with Zino. Charles removed it. "You do not need this," he said, then took out her combs and hairpins to allow her hair to fall loose to her shoulders. "Ah," he whispered, "comme tu es belle! Formidable! Remember, you will do anything I say."

Her arms, encircling his body, tugged at his trousers until they fell to the floor. She lay her face against his muscled chest, inhaling his odor. Then she sank to her knees and buried her face in his crotch. With deft licks of her tongue she teased his elephantine erection and felt him enlarge even more.

His eyes were glazed over with lust as he moved his pelvis back and forth, slamming his prick against the back of her throat. The Sinatra record had ended, and the silence was pierced only by the sound of the dogs barking and by Cestari's uninhibited whoops of pleasure.

It wasn't long before Victoria realized they were not two solitary lovers, but were being watched by someone. On a balcony not 500 yards away, binoculars raised to her eyes, a woman of a certain age, dressed in a scarlet damask djellaba, was witnessing their erotic encounter. What a kinky, surrealistic touch, Victoria mused, to be sharing these intimate moments with a stranger.

"Viens-y, come." Cestari pulled her with him inside. Their footsteps were absorbed by the thick dark carpeting. His erection was pushing against her leg. He muttered, "You are like a leopard, ready to spring. Your eyes, like the sea, your warm skin, they drive me insane. But you must also understand --"

"Yes?" she said breathlessly.

"I am also a seeker of decay. I demand ceremony and obedience before I take possession of you entirely." He gripped her buttocks hungrily. "You are an extravagant feast, a caprice, ma chère, and you are my whore. Waiting for you creates obsession... it is necessary ... my nerves shiver for you ... you are cool, like a drug ... yet hot ... I would like to crack you open..." The gold in his smile glinted in the dim light. His eyes were shining, feverish, his tongue imbued with the odor of pomegranate and Cuban cigars and the taste of fresh vanilla.

Slowly he traced the outlines of her breasts with a slight fluttering of his tongue, till he commanded, "Viens-y. Suces-moi," and once again thrust his throbbing tumescence in her mouth.

Just as he asked, she would do anything he wanted, even things like leches mon cul -- lick my asshole. At the same time, tension was mounting. Something out of the ordinary was going to happen.

She was watching them in all the mirrored panels, a thousand erotic images of their copulating. "You like mirrors?" she whispered in his ear. "I love to fuck in front of them." Saturated with moistures and fluids of desire, she was thirsting, begging for more.

He did not reply but with his knees rammed her legs apart and heaved his body on top. Gripping her hips, he bent his legs to thrust deeper, deeper into her, and when his fingers dug into the tender flesh of her breasts, she cried out in ecstasy. There was the furiously hard slow tease, the filling with him. Then suddenly he caught her arms and twisted them behind her back.

Her mouth opened with the pain of his hold. His body was like a tank now, crushing, devouring, touching her off again and again, controlling her as no man ever had. In the knocking and thumping together and in the frenzy of sliding wetness an energy was building, until a series of small explosions dissolved the walls in her and she succumbed to the full furious passion of his power.

A voice warned her this man was dangerous enough to kill, but as she strove again and again toward apex, she was compelled to go on, no matter if this could mean her very life. She was his slave, and if he wanted her death she could not resist. He was melting her away, ripping into her core, and she was willing to die for him, to die for sex. She loved him and she hated him, but she must obey him.

Oui, baises-moi, encore, encore, donnes-moi, comme tu es magnifique ... encore ... Sounds that began deep inside spiraled up through his mouth, emerging in animal utterances, sending them into passionate writhings until it hit her, a wet hot flush-rush that melted between her legs, inside and outside herself, and she heard herself cry yes yes ...

Later she smoked, languidly sucking from her slender platinum holder, staring at the narrow stream escaping from her cigarette.

"Ma petite fleur du mal," Cestari murmured. His eyes, his teeth, the outline of his face and body, looked satanic, depraved, fascinating.

A propos of their impending deal, he said, "Your group will be getting the best product available, never less than 97% purity, up to 99%. You must realize that no one else can duplicate this. It is very difficult, but our chemists have spent years perfecting their art. As soon as you are ready, we will begin. We have sealed our agreement, toi et moi."

"Excellent. 400 kilos a month, five year contract, with a fifteen percent discount over what you ordinarily charge."

"Merde!"

"Why do you say that?"

"It is a very large shipment, 400 kilos per month. This is over 5 tons per year."

"I know my metric system, darling."

"Ah, yes, and do you also know your market? You can really use this much product?"

"You bet I can. Listen, Charlie, I intend to saturate the entire eastern seaboard with this stuff. We've got captive clients already and we'll get more. I have a fabulous promotional gimmick to make heroin become practically the national pastime of the United States. We'll haul in the additional customers, don't you worry."

Victoria was elated how everything had swung her way. She had negotiated where no other LFM leader had dared. She had gotten a great price, fabulous terms. People would listen. And on top of that, there was the bonus of Charles himself. Far more than she had bargained for.

"Ma fleur du mal," he repeated, and Victoria smiled to herself.

She awoke the next morning, her body full with swelling, mellifluous pleasure, warm and voluptuous. Christ almighty, that was some workout Cestari had given her.

She had finally done this and done it alone. Cestari was eating out of her hand. She felt like she belonged here in this ancient biblical land, that she had an affinity with the notorious ladies whose domain this once was — Delilah, Jezebel, the Queen of Sheba, Salome, Bathsheba. She felt particularly akin to them this morning. Maybe Charles was right, perhaps she was a flower of evil, now blossoming in native soil, planted, well-fucked. Moreover, there was something in this atmosphere that empowered a woman. That was why those old fart biblical patriarchs were so down on women, always blasting houris, harpies, harlots, hussies, harridans, whores, she-wolves, concubines, courtesans and adulteresses. Well, she knew the full range of her power now, and she was using it to the hilt. But she'd be on her guard, lest anyone guess her secret. Cestari thought he was in charge. She'd keep it that way, let him think he had the upper hand. She knew better.

When she arrived back at the hotel, an urgent message waited from Harry. Vic rushed to get back to him and they arranged a phone booth to phone booth conference.

"The shit's hitting the fan all over the place," Harry said. "Your lawyers and accountants are calling every hour on the hour. You have to come back."

"What's the problem, Harry?" Vic asked.

"What isn't the problem? The IRS is descending, I think some son of a bitch must've reported you to them, there's a small matter of your being subpoenaed to a grand jury hearing that can't wait — maybe your friend Casey can get it quashed, but there's also about a million other things — you have all these documents and notices — shit, I can't figure it all out, honey, but it sure looks like trouble. You can't trust these lawyers to handle things. They screw up, you're the one who suffers. Sometimes I think they fuck up on purpose, just to get fatter fees for straightening things out. Anyway, they're telling me you gotta get your ass back here."

"Okay, okay, all right already ..."

"You gotta come now. I don't like this IRS business or the grand jury subpoena -- there's too much crap -- to say nothing of your crew that needs you to run things. You gotta keep everything in line."

"Jesus, I go away on a well-earned vacation and all hell breaks loose." Victoria consulted her watch. "All right, Harry, I'll be on the next plane. Meet me at Kennedy."