“After three months we’ll talk again, okay?” Scirocco continued. “You were making one thirty-five at United. I can do a little better than that. I’m offering you one seventy-five. And I’m sure you understand that with the Casino’s offshore banking status, it will be one seventy-five tax free. From your stand point, you will have effectively doubled your income. Do you need time to think it over?”
“Not at all,” Irene tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I accept.”
“Good, I’ll have a word with my accounts manager and set things up.” He stepped toward his desk and lifted a single sheet of paper. “I have a contract I’ll need you to sign.”
There was a mellow bong that came from somewhere above Irene’s head.
Scirocco’s eyes lifted and he replace the contract onto the desktop. “Ah. That will be our guests. We can finish up this business later, after they leave.”
Irene noted the “our guests” and, thinking of Melissa, wondered if she should read something dark into his words but he was already beckoning her to bring her glass. “Come along. I’ll introduce you.” And Irene stood and smoothed down the front of her dress.
In the foyer, Scirocco opened a panel in the wall. Irene could see the bright screen of a security monitor. Scirocco studied the images for a moment before entering a code. There was a light but disincentive hum from somewhere within the walls, then a series of hushed metallic clicks as the bolts were nestled back. Scirocco opened the door.
Irene didn’t like the man: Scirocco was a bully, a misogynist, and held a sadistic bent. He was a mobster, for christ-sake. But he was terribly good looking, had money, and a powerful position running the Casino.
He listened to opera.
And Irene couldn’t help feeling a little turned-on by the fact the man was dangerous and demanded armed security. You didn’t acquire Scirocco’s lofty position in life, she figured, without making serious enemies. It was easy to see how Melissa could be attracted to such a man. She would probably even forgive him for featuring her in a pornographic movie, if given the chance. Melissa still dreamed of being Mrs. Charlie Scirocco.
“Gentlemen,” he opened the door wider. “Welcome.”
The men filed in.
Irene fought with a sudden uneasiness. Three of the men had traveled with their wives and she had assumed…
She wrestled with the anxiety of being alone with seven men.
“Hey, you’re the lady pilot.” The guy thrust out a hand. “Angelo Roselli, Chicago,” he introduced himself.
A member of my fan club, Irene surmised, noting his eyes were glistening like two brand-new copper pennies. He was a fleshy man with a girth that suggested he didn’t know the location of the local Gold’s Gym. “Pleased, Mr. Roselli.” Irene looked down at the top of his balding head and fell into her dutiful role of glad-handing passengers. “Chicago? And what do you do in Chicago?”
He gave her a pained look; the look he reserved for little retarded girls. “I run Chicago,” he said.
“You’re the mayor?” Irene lifted a hand to her neck and faked awe.
He clutched himself and laughed. “You want to meet the mayor of Chicago? He’s in my right hip pocket,” he said dismissively. “And you fly that plane?”
“All by myself.”
“But you being a broa…” He caught himself.
Irene helped him out. “Yeah. Us broads are even flying airplanes these days. Go figure.”
The smile weakened on his lips as he struggled to determine whether or not he was being made the butt of a joke.
Irene quickly mollified his concern. “You enjoyed the flight?”
“Oh yeah,” he gushed. “You got great legs.”
Charmer, Irene thought. At least he’s frightfully honest. “Gosh. I’m flattered,” Irene returned, “With all those cute young girls onboard, you took the time to notice me?” Irene was familiar with the term MILF. She didn’t like it but understood that some men found something uniquely sexy about a middle-aged woman– a woman that was well preserved.
“You got class,” was his reply and taking Irene by the arm he steered her across the foyer. “Let’s go find Charlie’s bar. We’ll get you a proper drink; not that bubbly soda-y-pop you got there.”
The upholstered bar was along the side wall in Charlie Scirocco’s living-room and the blonde in the soft silk shirt was already setting up glasses.
“Double scotch, no ice,” he barked at her and, prying the champagne flute from Irene’s fingers, asked, “And you?”
“Cuba Libre,” Irene said, to save the girl the trouble of hauling out the blender.
The voice came from behind: “You monopolizing this young lady?”
Irene and Angelo Roselli turned together.
The guy was big, a heavy weight in an Armani suit that, despite the efforts of a fine tailor, didn’t fit; the lines spoiled by a hearty gut. He squeezed Irene’s hand in his mitt.
“This here’s Johnny Pecora,” Angelo made the introductions. “As you can tell by the liver spots, he’s from Miami Beach.”
“Let me guess,” Irene quipped. “You run Miami.”
He laughed. “Something like that.” Pecora leaned past Irene and plucked the scotch bottle from the blonde’s fingers and poured his own drink; filled an old fashioned to the brim. “C’mon Angelo. Give her up for ten minutes. You and I need to talk.”
“Okay– okay.” The conversation turned to Italian and the pair moved off toward the terrace; the big man’s arm around Angelo’s neck. Irene glanced about the room. The other men had divided up into groups of two or three and whatever business discussions had taken place during the day, were far from done.
She felt a nudge. The blonde was passing across a rum and coke with a wedge of lime. “Thanks. I’m Irene. We the only two women here?”
“Yeah. Two hens and all these weasels,” the girl in the soft silk shirt said, wrinkling her nose. “Josephine, but call me Joey.”
“Good to meet a fellow hen, Joey.” Irene squeezed her lime, sampled her drink and nodded her approval. “Mmm.”
“It’s good rum; not the molasses they give away. Mr. Scirocco buys Appleton’s from Jamaica. The fifteen-year-old stuff.”
Irene took another sip. It was strong, but the flavor was mellow. Smokey, even.
“There’s hors d’oeuvres on the sideboard,” Joey said. “Paté, brie, crackers, anchovies, deviled eggs, some good olives…”
Irene looked to where a glutton was loading up his napkin. “Naw. Think I’ll pass. Thanks.”
“You’re the pilot, right?” Joey wanted to know.
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s so cool. A lady pilot. I wish I could do something like that. How did you ever decide to fly?”
Irene moved to the side to make room for a dark-haired thug who shot her a greasy smile before retreating with two glasses of scotch.
“My father.” Irene picked up the conversation. “He cut his teeth flying a Grumman Goose for Chalk’s out of Fort Lauderdale. He did the run to Bimini and Nassau three times a week. I used to sit on his knee up in the cockpit and watch as he landed on the water.” Irene smiled at the fondness of the memory.
“Landed on the water?”
“Yup. No airstrip in those days and the Goose was an amphibian. Dad used to drop it down between the sailboats anchored in the harbor.”
Joey paused a moment, framing her next question. Irene knew what was coming.
“Are you looking for girls?” Joey asked tentatively. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m pretty enough but I’d do anything to get out of waitressing.”
Irene felt a pang of hopelessness. “Look, some of the girls are only in for a year; just to make some fast cash. There’s bound to be turnover and I’d be happy to keep you in mind. But you do realize that you would be required to work semi-nude from time to time.”
Joey’s gaze lifted, finding Irene’s. “You mean…? I heard you had to wear a swimsuit, but– nude?”
Irene couldn’t help but feel sorry for the girl. “At times. Some of the flights are, I dunno, special, I guess.”
“Jesus. I don’t think I could…”
“And truthfully, I don’t know how much influence I have. I think Scirocco reserves the right to select the girls.” Irene studied Joey’s tantalizing blue-green eyes. “Are you sleeping with him?”
The color came up in the girl’s neck. “No.” She drew a breath and checked herself, her eyes locked on the pink Casino framed in the windows. “But I guess I will if I have to. I’ve heard that’s what other girls do. To get the choice jobs, here. And I know you’re living with Ditz so I’m guessing you’re a lesbian too.” The girl drew a breath. “So if you like me, and want to party with me…” Her voice trailed for a moment. “Well I’m not gay, but I’ll sleep with you, if that’s what it takes. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
Irene’s insides went as taut as piano wire. So Ditz was lesbian! And by association, so was she. Or so everyone believed. Irene skewered the girl with a look, was about to jump to her own defense but the girl had lapsed into an injured silence and Irene felt the hopelessness rise up again. “Look Joey, you seem like a very sweet girl. When the time comes, I’ll remember our conversation. Trust me. And if I have any say in the matter, I’ll put in a good word for you. That’s all I can offer.”
“Thank you,” the girl whispered. “And let me know when you want me to drop by your room.”
Irene settled herself. “That won’t be necessary. I…”
“Joey. Could you take a tray of drinks around. Last call before dinner. Open the wine. We’ve got about ten minutes.”
“Yes, Mr. Scirocco,” Joey deferred, her eyes lowered.
Scirocco turned and fell into a clipped conversation with a young man in a chef’s jacket.
Joey took the opportunity. “I mean it,” she said to Irene, and she lifted the tray and sauntered into the center of the room; the whisper of her pantyhose distinct beneath her tight black skirt. Damn, she’s so pathetic, Irene thought. But so sweet.
She watched the men close ranks on Joey and her tray of drinks. Irene turned away, turned her back to the room and placed her elbows on the bar. She wanted to escape. Just let me sign my stupid contract and let me go home, she wished, thinking of pulling the covers over her head in her cozy Hobbit bed. She took a sip of her drink and the ice cubes rattled. She had found the bottom of her glass and didn’t want another. Just let me be home.
Joey returned with her tray of empty glasses. She appeared shaken and hid her eyes. Irene was about to ask but her jaw went taut. The top buttons of Joey’s shirt were undone and as she reached down for the wine bottles the girl displayed a rich slice of cleavage.
Her right breast shifted. “Oh God.” Joey clutched at the front of her shirt. “Don’t look at me,” she seethed, the humiliation darkening her pretty features.
Irene backed away. Scirocco, she shuddered. Scirocco had gotten to the girl. Had made his demands clear and she had complied. It was no wonder he had singled Joey out. She would do anything.