The door panel suddenly jumped.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Irene whirled. A fist had struck the opposite side of the door rattling it in its frame. “That son of a fuckin’ bitch.”
“Joey please. What happened to you?”
“He fucked me in the ass, is what happened.” Joey was ranting now. “He brought me home and told me he wanted a blow-job. Demanded one. He told me that I owed him, for getting me out of Scirocco’s apartment in time; before I would have had to do all the men. He said you’d be on your knees, sucking on all of them. And that I was lucky to be home.”
“Oh Joey, I’m so sorry.”
There was a heartfelt sob. “When I refused, he beat me. He told me to get my clothes off. He threw me down and fucked me in the ass. Now go away. I have to rest. They’re flying me home.”
“Okay, baby, I’ll be by later. Maybe you’ll be feeling better.”
“No! Just leave it alone, Irene. I mean it. Don’t come by. Don’t try to see me. It’s over.
Irene retreated down the hallway, cowering like a thief. How could she have been so stupid; placing that innocent kid into the hands of a thug like Steve Mosca. God, she had set things up so nicely for him: Here Mr. Mosca… Have a free fuck. Irene hit the crash bar on the door to the garden, desperately craving the fresh air. Guilt hung over her like an ax.
She was headed back to the dining room, to clue the hostess to the fact that Joey wouldn’t be showing up for any more shifts when she spotted Johnny Pecora and a couple of the other men from the previous night. Their heads were together, deep in discussion. Her interest peaked, she fell into step behind them and followed along as they made their way into the dining room.
Irene gave the woman with the big smile a conciliatory wave but kept in tight step with the men. They made their way to a table by the windows overlooking the swimming pool. Steve Mosca sat with a menu, his eyes wavering momentarily to the skimpy swimsuits on the other side of the glass.
Even before she reached the table, Irene shuddered at the sight of his hands and felt a rage building inside her chest like a scream was locked in her lungs. His knuckles were bruised and puffy and there were two semicircular cuts that had the right spacing to match a pair of front teeth.
“What happened to your knuckles, Mosca?” Irene sneered. “Looks like you went a couple of rounds.”
Mosca glanced up: First to where she had parked herself at the edge of the table and then across at his associates. He paled and tried to hide his hands under the tablecloth but wasn’t fast enough to avoid the scrutiny of Johnny Pecora.
“I tripped on the stairs.” Mosca stumbled out the words. But couldn’t avoid the blatant looks he was getting from across the table.
Irene, suddenly empowered, shouted, “Stairs? What stairs? Joey lives on the ground floor, for fuck’s sake!”
Irene’s voice was shrill in the crowded dining room and people were beginning to stare. Mosca’s business associates clearly didn’t like the notoriety.
Mosca turned a nasty shade of red and began to shake with the rising anger. “This is a private breakfast meeting, Irene. And no one invited you, so why don’t you hustle that tight ass of yours out the door before someone sticks a foot in it.”
Irene wasn’t about to be mollified. “Joey’s only eighteen, Mosca, about the same age as your eldest daughter. You beat up your own daughter, Mosca? When she refuses to bend over for you?”
There was an immediate shift in the restaurant. The tension was palatable. Johnny Pecora pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Irene looked across and met his eyes, thinking he was about to step in; damage control. But he tossed his napkin onto the table and turned on a heel, a look of disgust bracketing his mouth. He almost bumped into the waitress who was delivering a carafe of coffee.
“May I pour?” she asked innocently.
“No. Allow me.” Irene plucked the glass coffee decanter from the startled girl’s fingers. “Here Mosca. You first.” And Irene up ended the carafe, dumping the steaming brew into Mosca’s lap.
The coffee was freshly made and boiling-hot. Mosca screamed and charging to his feet, desperately plucked at his soaked trousers, trying to hold the burning fabric away from delicate tissues. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he threatened.
That was enough for the two remaining men. They quickly got to their feet and retreated like errant schoolboys, avoiding the eyes of the two Casino security men that were marching past. Whatever business Mosca had planned for that morning was plainly at an end.
“Fucking whore.” Mosca suddenly straightened, rage curling his lips like something had exploded inside his brain and he threw a fist. Irene didn’t have time to react and only just managed to turn her head and get her hands up to protect herself. Mosca’s fist connected with the empty carafe.
There was the sound of shattering glass and the shards peppered Irene about the face and shoulders. Irene blinked and saw Mosca staring in disbelief at the deep lacerations on the back of his hand. Blood was welling up and dripping from his fingertips but Irene wasn’t about to wait for another punch. She still held what was left of the carafe by the handle and reacting out of fear, she slashed the jagged glass down across Mosca’s face.
She was looking for another opening when the arms of the security man smothered her, lifted her off her feet and hustled her toward the doors.
“Let me down,” Irene screamed and twisting, she threw what was left of the coffee carafe at a humiliated Mosca. Her aim was good.
“That’s enough now ma’am. You got him good. Let us take it from here.”
As she was about to be jettisoned from the dining room, Irene looked back and saw Mosca trying to close the flap of his cheek with a linen napkin. Irene felt the pressure inside ease a little but she was still boiling mad.
The security man set her back on her feet in the hall. “Try to calm yourself, ma’am. It’s over. He won’t bother you again.”
The man was clearly sympathetic and Irene knew he had stepped into the dining room just as Mosca had thrown the punch. From the security man’s standpoint, Mosca had been the aggressor. Irene shamelessly played the jilted lover and leaning against the guy, she pushed a breast into a rocky bicep. “Thank you, I’m alright now.” She shuddered in his arms. “He was so awful,” she added for good measure.
Irene’s face tilted. She looked into startling hazel-brown eyes and recognized a man she figured she’d like to get to know much better. He released her from his arms and Irene reluctantly stepped back. He was twenty years her junior but she wondered, if the opportunity arose, would she say yes?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He leaned forward to catch her eyes.
“Yes. Yes, thank you. You arrived just in time.”
He dug into his breast pocket. “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. We know how to deal with his kind but just in case, here’s my card. My cell number is at the bottom. You call me anytime. Day or night. I’ll be there. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Irene said and she smiled prettily.
Outside in the garden, Irene found a bench, sat and took several deep breaths. She thought of Joey, lisping with broken teeth and seethed inside. Calculating now, she pulled out her cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Roselli? Angelo? It’s Irene Ross.”
The man brightened. “Irene. What a pleasure.” He hesitated. “I hope you can forgive me for last evening…”
“Don’t give it another thought. At my age, the attention is gratifying.”
Roselli chuckled lightly, relieved to be off the hook. “What can I do for you doll?”
“I was wondering if you could answer a question for me.”
“Sure, if I can. I’m by the pool sipping a Bloody Mary. Drop by,” and added, “if you’re not forty-thousand feet up.”
Irene laughed politely. “I’m just around the corner.”
Angelo Roselli was parked at the end of the bar. It wasn’t hard to spot his bulk. He wore lime green Bermuda shorts but had the good sense to wear a shirt. Irene tried to ignore the white socks under his sandals.
“Mr. Roselli, you know Mr. Mosca well?”
“Sure. The man’s a pus. You wanna drink, Ross?”
“Thanks, but no. I fly tomorrow. Regulations, you understand.”
Roselli hunched a shoulder. “What can I do for you doll?”
“I need a phone number or email address for Mrs. Mosca.”
Roselli gave her a queer look that broadened into a wide smile. “Oh-ho– something’s afoot,” a note of glee to his voice. “I got the home phone number, sure. You want to talk with her?”
“Yes. I have some information for her.”
“Information,” he repeated still grinning. “Well if you want to talk with Alisha Mosca, she’s right over there. Sitting with Mrs. Roselli, under the beach umbrella.” And he pointed. “She’s the beanpole.”
Mrs. Mosca was a beautiful woman. But it was a superficial beauty that only ran skin deep. She had a body like a tree branch with nude birdie-legs, elegantly crossed at the knee. The stretchy fabric of her sun dress sheathed a long narrow torso; a contrast to Mrs. Roselli’s motherly waistline.
Alisha Mosca had no hips or breasts but good shoulders and her boney face was supported on a long column of neck. She had a short, fashionable cut that never moved, even when the wind kicked up. The woman had the look of an aging runway model and Irene could well imagine her owning a fashion studio or perhaps her own modeling agency. Alisha Mosca oozed sex appeal like a caramel bar oozes syrup, something that was not missed by the men around the pool.
“I have to speak with her in private,” Irene told Roselli.
Angelo Roselli, clearly enjoying himself, picked up his phone. “Not a problem.” He scrolled down and pressed connect.
Irene watched Mrs. Roselli tuck her phone to her ear.
“Hey, dear,” Roselli spoke, “need to go up to the room. You got the key card in your bag?”
Irene saw Mrs. Roselli push back her chair. It was Irene’s cue and she moved quickly along the terrace, passing Mrs. Roselli halfway across.
“Mrs. Mosca?”
The woman looked up as Irene approached the edge of the table, squinted in the bright sunshine and slipped sunglasses up her nose.
“I just roasted your husband’s balls,” Irene continued, “and I figure you’ll want to know the reason why.”