Scirocco was rolling his hands in the air. “Please. Everyone,” he beckoned.
The guests seated themselves around the dinner table where Irene played musical chairs, trying to avoid Angelo Roselli. She could count on having to endure his sweaty hand on her leg if they sat together. But the chubby man was quick and, anticipating where she was headed, maneuvered his bulk into the chair beside hers. He hardly got settled before he smiled into her face and squeezed her bare knee under the tablecloth.
The man on her left introduced himself. He was Steve Mosca, a distributor from Philadelphia. Irene hadn’t a clue about what he meant by distributor and wasn’t of a mind to find out. He appeared nice enough and they fell into easy conversation. He talked proudly of his family: four kids, all girls. Twelve, fourteen, sixteen and eighteen years of age.
The kitchen door swung back and two boys, rolling a heavy stainless steel serving table in front, moved toward the table. The chef followed behind.
Maybe Scirocco’s guests were Italian, but their culinary preferences had certainly been Americanized: Meat and potatoes. Irene had been hoping for a rare Sicilian specialty but the only concession to the men’s heritage was the round loaf of crusty bread, the choice of wine, and the black olives that sat untouched in the center of the table. There wasn’t a salad. Still, the room was filled with the fragrance of sizzling fat and garlic and Irene inhaled gratefully. With a flourish, the chief removed the cover from the serving table to reveal a leg of beef and with a huge knife, started sawing off thick slabs of meat.
The slices were placed on dinner plates the size of steering wheels and held by one of the assistants who added mashed potato, fried onions, mushroom caps and grizzled everything with rich gravy. He passed the plate over to the second boy who shuttled back and forth between the expectant guests.
When her turn came, Irene ask for rare and was treated to a juicy portion sliced from next to the bone. It was presented in front of her with a warning: “Don’t touch the plate. You’ll burn yourself.”
With plates distributed, Scirocco pulled a gold lighter from his pocket and put the flame to the candles. Joey lowered the lights and the men started eating in the gentle flicker of candlelight. The room went silent except for the scrap of knives and forks on bone china and the sound of trickling wine as Joey make her way around the table, pouring from an earthenware jug.
Irene watched Joey moving between the guests, the girl’s eyes focused on the wine goblets. The men, in turn, were focused on the soft inner curves of Joey’s breasts that pushed and swayed between the open lapels as she leaned forward with her jug.
As appetites were satiated, the conversation drifted back. Informal chitchat at first: Someone put a question to Steve, a request for tickets to a Philadelphia Eagles game. Two men planned to stop by the gaming floor on their way to their rooms. Someone wanted the weather report for the coming day. But before long the talk inevitably turned gloomy and the language reverted to Italian. Business as usual.
Her mother was Italian but Irene had never acquired the language. So, feeling isolated, she pushed a lump of mashed potato she had no intention of eating, around a puddle of gravy. How much longer would she have to endure the monotony? She was sick of the boring men and their dull conversation. And sick of Angelo Roselli trying to stick his hand up her dress. Finally the kitchen boys cleared away the dishes. Irene passed on the deep-dish apple pie with ice cream. And waited for the coffee.
Joey filled her cup with espresso and topped it off with scalded milk. When Irene refused the sugar, Joey moved along the table, filling the tiny cups as she went. At the head of the table, she leaned forward to fill Scirocco’s demitasse. As she hovered over him, he casually reached up and twisted the buttons.
Irene saw the girl flinch but Joey stalwartly continued to fill Scirocco’s cup; her breasts hanging in the opening of her shirt; her nipples all but covered. The men around the table were mesmerized with anticipation.
And Scirocco didn’t disappoint them.
When the girl straightened, Scirocco’s pulled the silk back, exposing her left breast. There was a murmur from around the table; someone chuckled lewdly. Scirocco plucked up the erect nipple and rolled it between his fingers. Joey set the coffee pot down and avoided the men’s eyes. She stood deathly still, waiting.
Scirocco took the fullness of her breast between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, lifting the mound up and forcing the pink thimble forward, as if offering it to the men. He plucked his gold lighter from a jacket pocket and with the flick of a thumb, the yellow flame jumped up. Irene caught a breath. One of the men gasped in surprise. Someone cleared his throat. Scirocco passed the flame, back and forth beneath Joey’s straining nipple.
Irene heard the sharp intake of breath; saw the girl fist her hands. Sweat had burst from Joey’s pores and a line of moisture trickled down the notch of her throat. Scirocco looked up into Joey’s face, waiting to see pain twist her child-like features. He didn’t see what he wanted and returned the flame to the tender nub, holding it steady now.
Joey held for one long moment, biting down the pain. But Scirocco persisted and finally she buckled, screamed, and bending away, Joey ran from the room clutching her shirt closed about springy breasts. She disappeared down a hallway and slammed the bathroom door. Scirocco chuckled and put his lighter away. There was a stunned silence around the table broken only by the muffled sound of the girl’s sobbing.
“I should go to her.” Irene started to rise.
“You stay where you are. You’re place is here, with me.”
The cold heartlessness in his voice caused Irene to falter. She twisted her lips in disgust but sat back down.
“Good,” Scirocco said. He took a breath and turned his attention on his guests. “Gentlemen, we seem to have lost our bartender for the moment but I have brandy. And a box of fine Cuban cigars. If you’ll accompany me out onto the terrace, Irene will serve the drinks.”
The men passed the coffee pot around and at last, they pushed themselves away from the table. They ambled outside onto the rooftop terrace and Scirocco steered Irene toward the bar. He opened a cabinet and while Irene placed small brandy snifters on a tray, Scirocco opened the bottle.
“Put a couple of ounces in each glass,” he instructed, “and take them outside. Pour one for yourself.”
Irene nodded. She wanted to ask about the girl again, wanted to go to her, but thought better of it. Her priority right now was to deliver the drinks. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He turned on a heel. “The cigars are in my study.” And he disappeared into the foyer, his shoes clicking on stone tile.
Relegated to bar-tending, Irene thought to herself. But she didn’t mind. It was a relief to perform this basic task; something more constructive than making small talk. And with brandy and cigars out of the way, she could look forward to signing her contract and getting home. She had one awkward moment when she contemplated what she might do if Scirocco wanted her to spend the night but then thought of Joey’s tight body. Surely Scirocco would prefer to bed a nubile eighteen-year-old rather than jump her tired old bones. Satisfied she was safe, Irene picked up the tray.
The terrace was large. A multi-level space done in interlocking terrazzo tile with a redwood arbor that would scatter the rays of the sun. Trellises were thick with flowering vines and trees sprouted from clay pots giving the impression of a jungle oasis. There was a patio table with plush chairs and loungers and, located opposite, a raised hot tub was positioned to give bathers an unobstructed view of the Casino’s stunning pink facade picked out against the night-sky by ground level floodlighting.
Irene couldn’t help but wonder how many young girls had lost their bikinis in the roiling froth of the tub. She shrugged and took her tray to where the men were leaning out over the railing.
The mood had changed.
The men were talking excitedly; pointing and looking down. One of the men laughed; a high pitched hysterical giggle, then choked. One of the other men turned to his friend and gleefully thumped him between the shoulder blades before returning his attention to something located below Irene’s line of sight.
Irene was hesitant to interrupt the sudden and rather bazaar turn of events. She set the tray on the table and stood watching a moment, studying the hunched backs of the men, before deciding to approach them with the news that their brandies had arrived. As she got close, she heard a woman’s bright laughter and not being able to contain her curiosity, Irene glanced over the railing.
She looked down onto a great slab of turquoise light. It was a swimming pool with underwater lighting and surrounded by lush gardens. And five young women sat along the apron, dangling their toes in the water. Even from four stories up, Irene could tell the women were right out of a fashion-shoot. And were wearing nothing more than colorful underpants.
The women sat chatting aimlessly, their white bodies reflecting the dappled light of the pool. Heavy breasts bobbed and swayed with the animated movements of shoulders and arms. And they appeared oblivious to the fact that they had garnered the attention of Scirocco’s associates. The men, hidden above, were giddy with voyeuristic excitement.
Irene recognized Scirocco’s hand in this. If the men didn’t realize it, Irene did. It was a set up. The whole thing was too planned; staged she thought, and she was sure the women by the pool would prove to be employees of the Casino, recruited by Scirocco and out to make a little extra cash.
“What’s all the excitement?” Scirocco’s voice came from behind. The men turned in accord to find Scirocco with one arm wrapped around a humidor of cigars and the other around a sniveling Joey, her shirt still unbuttoned. She looked like a little girl who had just had her bum slapped. Scirocco released Joey and took a look over the railing. He barked out a laugh.
“You guys ogling my hotel guests? Those are paying customers, for heaven-sake, and deserve some privacy.”
“But Charlie,” Angelo Roselli begged with a lecherous chuckle. “They got boobs. Really nice ones.”
“What?” Scirocco regarded his associate with a grin. “You got two of the most sensual women on the Island, standing right here.”
“Yeah. But you know…” Angelo Roselli leveled a pointed look at Irene’s chest.
“Yeah. I know.” Scirocco said flatly. He turned. “Irene?”
Irene’s chin inched up. “Yes?”
“I think it would be a nice gesture if you would give these gentlemen the pleasure of taking a look at what they’ve been fantasizing about all evening. What’dya say?”
“I’m sorry? I don’t…”
“Sure you do. Take off your clothes.”
His words penetrated, flooding her with a yawing emptiness; a feeling of desolation and there was a rushing sound in her head. But the throbbing in her ears failed to mask the murmur of appreciation from the men. Her stomach jolted.
“What? Here?” She sounded incredulous.
His face was closed. “Right now, Irene. Take everything off. All of it.”
A nice gesture. Is that what he had called it? Take everything off… Irene tried to gather herself. Everything wasn’t much; no bra nor pantyhose. Just the dress and her underpants. Oh Christ. A sense of dread grasped her soul and she stood trembling, knowing the eyes of the men were on her.
She thought of the contract, still unsigned and waiting on his desktop. Technically, she was still unemployed; didn’t have a job. Her future was still on the line. She need to work; needed to fly.
She chanced a look at the men who had gathered closer; waiting. Their faces were blatant, unforgiving. They wanted her naked. And then what? Favors all around? Irene forced those images from her mind. She had to do this.