SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

I was standing before the mirror in my bedroom admiring myself in a black lace jump suit when the telephone rang. I ignored it for a second, turning slightly to get the effect of black lace over bare skin and telling myself that Mark Condon would appreciate it even more than I.

The phone went on ringing.

I turned my head, staring coldly at the princess phone. Who in hell was calling at such an hour, a little past midnight? I had learned from past, bitter experience that it would not be good news. It never was at that hour.

Sighing, I moved toward it.

It was Avery King. “Get over here at once, Cherry,” he growled. “And if Mark is with you, bring him along, too.”

“Now?” I howled.

“Right now. At once.”

Avery King hung up, leaving me to stare at the dead phone and whisper naughty words under my breath.

“Trouble on the home front?” asked a voice.

Mark Condon was standing in the bedroom doorway, a shoulder resting against the jamb. Mark never stands up straight when he can lounge. He is a handsome man, he is also my immediate boss in the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization—more generally known as N.Y.M.P.H.O.—of which I am a working member. Mark and I have a thing going for each other, someday we may even marry.

“The boss wants us.”

He straightened. “Now?” he yelled.

I smiled ruefully. “That’s just the way I felt when I heard his dulcet tones. I’m sorry, Mark.”

“You’re sorry!”

I laughed at his expression. We had been in for a spot of love-making, after a wonderful dinner and a few hours at a Broadway theater seeing the latest smash hit. I’d just returned from Japan where I’d been on official business, and this was our special get-together.

On slippered feet, I moved toward a closet and lifted out a trench coat. I said as I slipped into it, “Maybe we can come back and pick up where we left off. It can’t be all that important.”

“You don’t think so, hey?”

“I do, but I’m trying to cheer you up.”

Mark said naughty words, came to help me into the coat. I sat on the edge of a chaise lounge and slipped peds onto my feet, then eased my feet into Pappagallos.

We went down in the elevator to the basement, where Mark had parked his car. He opened the door and I slid in and sat there, brooding. I paid little attention to him as he started up the engine and drove out into the early morning traffic.

Frankly, I was asking myself if this job of mine was worth all the trouble it caused me. Not that I minded hardships when I was on the job, they were a part of it, but it was just about killing my love life.

My name is Cherry Delight. Actually, I was born and christened Patricia Delissio, but my hair is long and red and the nickname just seemed to fit me. It was my official name as far as N.Y.M.P.H.O. was concerned.

I have been well trained for my job. I am a crack shot, I am an expert in judo, karate and even Burmese boxing. I can speak eight or nine languages. My entire body is a weapon, N.Y.M.P.H.O. has made sure of that. I am also paid a damn good salary.

Still and all. . . .

The traffic was reasonably light at this hour, and Mark made good time. We parked in front of the big office building that houses the N.Y.M.P.H.O. offices and walked into the lobby.

N.Y.M.P.H.O. never sleeps. An armed guard employed by our organization saluted us with a grave smile and a sympathetic nod of his graying head. It was nothing new to him to see our agents routed out of a warm bed and sent off somewhere in the middle of the night.

We emerged from the elevator into a posh corridor and made our way along to double doors. We walked through several empty offices until we came to the holy of holies, which was where Avery King presided over N.Y.M.P.H.O. like a gigantic spider in the middle of its web.

Not that Avery King is gross, he isn’t. He is tall and lean, very good looking, and has a British accent. He wears the latest clothes, he keeps on top of world affairs, and nothing seems to happen in Mafia that he doesn’t know about. My own personal opinion is that he has informers on his payroll, just about everywhere.

He sat behind his desk and watched us approach. His face was unlined, rather grave, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m sorry to have brought you out into the night . air,” he murmured as we took seats, “but something rather important has broken.”

His wise eyes had seen my sexy jump suit, he could figure out for himself what Mark and I were about to do. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desktop.

“Joey Abruzzi was killed today,” he said softly.

Mark jerked. “Tony Abruzzi’s son?”

When Avery King nodded, Mark whistled. “This blows the lid off. What’ll his father do?”

“Who knows? Fight back, I’m hoping—in the only way he can.”

“And how is that?” I asked brightly.

“By turning informer.”

“Like Joe Valachi?”

Avery King nodded and shifted position in his chair. “I say, I hope this is what he does. He may not.” He shrugged those impeccably tailored shoulders of his, then added wryly, “I’m hoping we may be able to persuade him.”

Alarm bells went off in my head. “What you’re trying to say is; you believe that Cherry Delight can persuade him,” I snapped, fidgeting angrily on the edge of the big leather armchair cushion.

“Can you imagine how much knowledge about the Mafia Tony Abruzzi carries around in his head?” Avery King asked dreamily. “With his help, we could bust Alberto Digorio and his little crime empire. It would be a lead pipe cinch.”

“And how do we persuade him?” I wanted to know.

“By appealing to his honor.”

“Give me that again, slowly.”

My bossman rested his forearms on his glass desktop. “One week ago, Joey Abruzzi was married. Joey was a good boy, his only crime was that he was Tony Abruzzi’s only son. And Tony Abruzzi had the temerity to quarrel with Al Digorio.

“Digorio decided Tony had to be taught a lesson, so he sent his hit men out after Joey. They must have killed him this morning, sometime between nine and ten. They stuffed his bullet-riddled body into his car trunk and left it there.”

I interrupted. “There’ll be a big funeral.”

“Yes, there will—but will Tony himself be there?”

“You mean somebody may shoot him down as other capos have been shot?”

“It’s a possibility to consider.”

I eyed him warily. “Is this a hint that you want me to attend that funeral? To make sure no hit man bothers Tony Abruzzi?”

Avery King smiled. “Tell me what you think of the idea.”

“Why do you always put me on the spot? Sure it’s a good idea. It gets better every time I think about it. If Digorio sends his hit men, maybe even the same men who killed Joey, it will be a feather in our caps if we get them.”

“Not only that, it will open Tony Abruzzi’s eyes to the fact that his own life is in danger, that the only safe place for him to hide is with N.Y.M.P.H.O. or the federal government.”

“Where he will hopefully spill his guts and tell us what we want to know about Digorio’s Mafia dealings.”

“Exactly.”

I sat back in my chair and crossed my black-laced legs. “Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid you’d have me flying off to Timbuktu or somewhere, before the break of dawn.”

He grinned coldly. “You may still have to go to Timbuktu if Tony Abruzzi takes a powder.”

“By then I’ll be ready.”

I got to my feet, figuring our little session was at an end. Avery King waved his hand at me. “Sit down. I’m not finished with you. You’ll have to go to Tony, convince him. Argue him into giving himself up to us, pointing out that it’s his only chance to stay alive.”

“He’ll kill me,” I said flatly.

“Why should he do that?”

“He’ll know I’m from N.Y.M.P.H.O. and any Mafia man worth his salt hates N.Y.M.P.H.O. and our agents.”

“Somebody has to convince him.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Avery King to go see Tony Abruzzi himself, if he was so goddamn sure we could talk sense into him. Tony Abruzzi was old-style Mafiosi, he believes in things like the blood oath and “going to the mattresses” when danger threatens from rival mobs. That is, holing up somewhere and fighting back with everything you’ve got.

One did not talk like that to the big boss, however. I contented myself with scowling and swinging my right foot up and down.

“All right,” I said finally, “but I have to do it my own way.” What else could I say? “And that means no interference, none at all, until I can get to Tony Abruzzi and have words with him.”

Avery King smiled. Too late, I realized it was a smile of pure relief, and it came to me that he might have hesitated a long time before actually ordering me to put my head in the lion’s mouth. Oh, I’d faced death a hundred times in my job, but to go to Tony Abruzzi as a N.Y.M.P.H.O. agent and ask him to violate his sacred oath was a bit much.

The bossman said, “That’s all.”

We stood up and spoke our farewells, I promised to be on hand at the funeral, and then Mark and I were walking arm in arm out of his office and toward the empty elevator.

Mark growled, “It’s a hell of an assignment.”

I hugged his arm. “Oh, it could be worse. If things turn out the way I hope they will, it mightn’t be too bad.”

Mark gave me the fish-eye

I laughed, “All I’m hoping is that Al Digorio sends his hit men to that funeral. It will be a bad tactical error, Mark. Very bad. It’ll drive Tony Abruzzi right into my arms.”

“Speaking of being driven into your arms, how are you feeling, right about now?”

I giggled. “Like a red hot mamma. You interested?”

One thing I will say in favor of my job—it gives me an added interest in life. I face so much danger that when it comes time for the goodies in my life, I’m there with bells on to take advantage of them.

Like now, for instance.

As we waited for the elevator, I opened up my trench coat and showed Mark the full effect of the black lace jump suit. It had a lot of openings between the lace, and a lot of me showed in those openings. My nipples were up hard, jutting through two holes, and when he glanced at my lower belly, he could see my mat of red pubic hair.

He stepped forward to take me in his arms.

Then he kissed me like there was no tomorrow, his hands slid under the trench coat and wandered about on my buttocks. He stirred me up, and I know doggone well he was some stirred, himself.

The elevator came up to the floor, the doors opened, we got in and continued our kiss. We broke it when we reached ground level. Very sedately, we held hands all the way to his car, past the amused eyes of the armed guard.

Mark drove through the empty streets of New York as though he had a pain in his gut, which he did. We parked his car and ran for the elevator. In the elevator he got part of my trench coat off and bent to kiss my swollen nipples jutting through the lacy holes of the black jump suit. He had me wriggling and panting in no time at all, which was the way Mark liked it. While I was fumbling in my bag for the apartment keys, good old Mark was fumbling around on me.

We didn’t bother with any seduction routine, we got inside, slammed and bolted the door, then ran for the bedroom. My trench coat went flying through the air, with Mark’s jacket right beside it. I slid a shoulder out of the jump suit, and then another, while his tie and Hathaway shirt did ditto.

I swung about at the edge of the bed with the jump suit down to my navel. Mark kicked his pants and shorts off at the same time and moved toward me.

My breasts were up firm and solid, the nipples jutting. My belly was moving in and out in rhythm to my breathing. Mark leaped. His body collided with mine and drove me backward onto the bed. Mark sometimes gets cavemanish like this, occasionally I like it, like now.

He didn’t take me right away, he had to get the rest of me out of the black lace. He did it pretty smoothly, for a man in his condition. In seconds I was stark naked and his lips were kissing parts of me that had been hidden.

I gasped in delight, I whimpered blissfully.

After a time I howled in ecstasy

It went on a long time, Mark is a good stayer, he takes his time and doesn’t rush things too drastically. He sent me into orgasmic heaven half a dozen times before he finally sought his own release.

When we finally fell apart, our eyes closed and breathing fitfully, Mark got businesslike.

“Are you really going to that funeral?” he wanted to know.

“Oh, Mark! Must you—now?”

He reached out, pulled me so I lay on his naked chest, head pillowed on a shoulder. His arm hugged me. “I only ask because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

I wriggled happily. “I’ll be careful.”

“How careful?”

I lifted my head, stared down at his face that was partially covered by a spray of my red hair. I kissed him tenderly.

“Very careful, Mark. Oh, yes.”

He eyed me dubiously. “I know you, you little spitfire. When you’re on a case, you go freaky. One of these days, it may cost you. I don’t want that to happen.”

“If I didn’t go freaky, as you put it, I might be dead right now. That’s part of my stock in trade, acting fast before anybody has a chance to think.”

“Yeah, I give you that.”

“Usually I’m all by myself on a case. I’m surrounded by enemies, by Mafia hit men or mobsters of assorted talents. All I have to do is shoot. It makes it simple.”

“While they’re shooting back.”

“A risk of the trade, Mark. You know that. Now come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He reached down and pulled the covers over us. We lay together, warm and cozy. In seconds I was walking through my dreams and enjoying them. One thing I’ll say about myself, I usually have nice dreams, and tonight was no exception.

Next morning when Mark woke up I was in the kitchen frying bacon. The smell of perking coffee added its aroma to that of the bacon. Mark came to the kitchen archway, scratching his belly.

“Go take a shower,” I told him. “Eggs scrambled suit you?”

He grinned. “The way you do.”

When we were eating, I told him I had to do some shopping. I needed clothes.

“Shopping?” he said as if he were my husband. “You have more clothes now than you can wear. What do you need with more?”

“Mourning clothes,” I informed him, sniffing. “I want to go to that funeral but I don’t want anybody to recognize me, or to remember me. Black clothes, a nice long veil in solid black, ought to do the trick.”

Mark looked at me as if I were some sort of genius. “That’s good thinking.”

“I told you I’d be careful,” I laughed.

Like most women, I love to shop. I bought a severe black dress and selected a veil that would hide my face under the black hat I’d selected. All I needed now was my Gold Cup Colt automatic in my Gucci bag. I even went so far as to buy a black Gucci.

What the hell! I charged it all to N.Y.M.P.H.O.. These were working clothes and since the Internal Revenue wouldn’t let me deduct them, I figured N.Y.M.P.H.O. owed them to me.

I bought every paper I could find and read all about the murder of Joey Abruzzi, how his family was taking it, how Tony Abruzzi was in seclusion, wouldn’t see anybody or talk to anyone except maybe his bodyguards, and that the funeral would be tomorrow morning. Oh, there was a lot more, but this was reporters wondering what steps Tony Abruzzi would take to get even with the capo di tutti capi. Alberto Digorio, in other words.

It rained that night, and the rain lingered over into the next morning. My grandmother always used to say that when it rained while a person was being buried, that person went right to heaven. I found myself hoping Joey Abruzzi had, from what I could learn he was a good boy.

I drove to the church in a rented car, a black one. I brought the veil down over my face as I walked into the High Mass and found a pew near the back so I could see everybody who was there. A lot of moaning and loud weeping was going on, but the little girl who had been Joey’s bride of not very many days was silent, white and stunned: she looked as if she did not believe this was happening; that she was in the middle of a particularly bad dream.

Naturally, my attention was focused on Tony Abruzzi. He was a tall, lean man, very much like his son in features, except that his face was more lined. He wore black, and a white shirt, he appeared to be a respectable business man.

Nobody else seemed to be paying much attention to him, all eyes were focused on the poor little bride who was now a widow. It was not the mother who was doing all the keening and wailing, but two aunts. They had to be supported from the pews when the service was at an end.

I got out before the others, I needed time to get to my car and drive fast to the cemetery. I figured no hit would be made at Tony Abruzzi on his way to the graveyard, but that one might be made there, when everyone was grouped about the grave watching the coffin.

The rain let up a little on the drive, so by the time I parked and slid out of the Chevy, there were puddles to be avoided but there was no need for an umbrella. I carried mine, however, I figured it might come in handy to hide my Colt if I had to get it out in a hurry.

I moved along the flagging to the open grave, not walking too close to it, but near enough so that I could watch anyone in the vicinity who looked suspicious.

They came after a while, the black funeral cars moving sedately along the roadway. The cars stopped and the men in the hearse got out, lifting out the casket. The mourners were also emerging, walking toward the open grave, some of the women leaning heavily on the grave-faced men. A priest walked with the widow and another with the mother.

My eyes were never still, they went this way and that among the mourners, searching for a man or perhaps two men who did not seem as affected by grief as the others—the ones who might be Mafia hit men.

I didn’t see anyone and relaxed.

They came to the open hole, they formed about it, the priest took out his little book and began to read from it, and then to pray. There were sobs and tears and low moans. My heart was touched, I thought of the saying that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. How true it was, with young Joey Abruzzi!

A movement caught my attention. Two men were walking along the flagstone path, eyes riveted on the little group at the grave. One of them was beefy with blue jowls and little eyes set too close together. The other man was small and dapper, but he walked like a stalking panther.

Mafia hit men, I told myself.

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