SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

The swimming pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel was jam-packed with roasting flesh of all shades and all sizes. I would have liked to have had the suntan oil concession down there. People were stretched out on lounges cheek to jowl and belly to belly. Hardly anyone was taking advantage of the limpid blue turquoise of the pool. They were more concerned with sunning themselves and conducting their business at poolside. 

I had come to Hollywood to find out about some of that business. A film producer had complained to our organization that he was being strong-armed not only into paying large percentages of money for protection, but also to grind out films that would show our lethal enemy—the Mafia-in a subtly favorable light. 

What the Syndicate wanted was to brain wash the American public into thinking (a) there really was no such thing as the Brotherhood of Evil or (b) that the Brotherhood did exist but primarily for such purposes as helping poor widows and orphans. 

At N.Y.M.P.H.O., the New York Mafia Persecution and Harassment Organization, we knew better than that. The Syndicate's main objective was making widows and orphans. 

I knew something about this producer, Charles Beaumont Millstein. He had made a big bundle and a small rep by producing some porno flicks a few years earlier. He had turned the knack for combining a lot of sex with a lot of violence and turning it into a lot of loot. He had put together such memorable epics as Rape Shapes and Come to Die which had earned a fortune playing the porno circuits in New York, L.A., and then the rest of the country. His technique had been startling enough for him to have decided to cash in on a few favorable reviews and turn legit. That was why he had moved his base of operations from a loft in Hackensack, New Jersey to the glamour capital. Now he was holding forth at Studio One and other well-known Los Angeles spots on his “theories of the cinema.” 

It might have been a lot of hooey but when money talks people listen. Especially in this burg. Thus Millstein had quickly gathered to himself the usual coterie of hangers-on and yes men who seemed to swarm around every up and-coming figure in movies. They would listen eagerly while Millstein expounded his latest ideas of film-making. Among his listeners nobody seemed more avid than a girl named Shana Panks, his leading lady both on, and if you believe the rumors, off the screen. 

Millstein had also attracted a much less desirable following. In fact, that was the very reason that I was there. The Mafia, quick to pick up on an influential figure, had attached itself to the producer or at least so he claimed. And I was on the movie merry-go-round to check the truth of Millstein's claim and see what could be done about it. 

As far as anyone would know I was one of his latest discoveries cast to play second fiddle to Shana in Millstein's first big-time production. 

Let me tell you right off the bat that I didn't need any padding for the part. I just happen to be about 5 feet 8 inches of all-American girl with my poundage distributed in a way that would make most starlets faint with envy. And if the industry could get its merchandise distributed with similar ease and perfection, there would be very little complaints about the movie business. I'm also a flaming redhead, which counts in part for the Cherry Delight nickname that's been fastened to me. I had always thought that the moniker would look good up in lights on a marquee but since it was already pretty well known to a good segment of the underworld I would have to be working strictly incognito. 

My man Mark had chosen the name for me himself. My phony contract, my billing, and all my publicity would be credited to one Coco Madrid. 

“Coco Madrid,” I said the name to myself a few times, rolling it around on my tongue just to see how it tasted. It would take a little getting used to, but not much. I had worked under so many phony names and identities it was a wonder that I didn't get all mixed up some times. But that was one of the things that Mark said he appreciated most about me. The fact that my neat little brain worked with such computer-like precision. 

Of course, he happened to be patting my backside as he said it, but that just happens to be rather a neat little package too! 

I stepped back from the window of my air conditioned suite to finish unpacking. I had only arrived in Hollywood from New York an hour or so before, and still had lots to do. I glanced at my Piaget white-gold wristwatch. I only had about half an hour before I was due to join Charles Beaumont Millstein and Co. for lunch at the famous Brown Derby. I wanted to be sure that I looked my very best at this, the first glimpse that Hollywood would get of its new femme fatale. 

Pulling clothes out of my Vuitton suitcase I selected a clinging Pucci jersey in one of those typically flamboyant patterns of swirling reds and golds and oranges that complimented my hair and skin tone perfectly, to say nothing of what it did for my shape. I pulled it over my head and patted it briskly into place, sure that the movie colony would approve. 

I didn't want to dress too flashy especially since my introduction was to be over lunch, and I thought the high neckline of the dress would say something about my good taste. There would be plenty of time later, at cocktail par ties and orgies, to show off the numbers that were slashed to the waist front and back and sometimes wickedly up the leg almost above the hip-line 

I sprayed myself with enough Arpege to add at least a couple of kilograms to the density of the infamous Los Angeles smog. Pantyhose comprised my only underwear, and over the silky texture I strapped on a pair of towering reptile patterned shoes. 

I glanced in the mirror; I was just about ready. I smoothed the dress against my hips and turned profile and back to the full-length mirror, checking out every curve from every angle. There was no place on my bod that I could have concealed even the smallest weapon, but I didn't think such protection would be necessary at a simple lunch. I didn't expect to run into any strong arm stuff while playing Coco Madrid. All of that would happen behind the scenes once I got the hang of things and could start some super-snooping on my own. 

Meanwhile I would just have to come on strong as the new sexpot in town. The big publicity buildup was Millstein's idea to protect my cover and I had to admit that it made a lot of sense. Nobody would be suspecting a sultry babe who was trying to carve out a career for herself in flicks from being anything else but. I would have to play dumb of course. That was part of the bit. Just as long as I could come on like a bundle of allure and ambition everything would be perfect. 

I hoped that some of the goons who were doing the muscle-work on Millstein would be hanging around for the lunch fest. I always like to be ahead of the game. And the sooner I knew who I was dealing with the better. 

Millstein had briefed Mark before I was assigned to the case, so I had some idea of what it was all about. A couple of union organizers were acting as front men muscling in and demanding protection pay-offs. Because they represented some of the most important technical crafts in the movie business most studios and producers were knuckling under and giving them whatever they asked for. 

Millstein, whatever his faults might have been, at least had the courage to stick his chin out and come running for help. Mark figured if we could stop it with Millstein that maybe we would be able to stop it completely. That was one part of my project. The other was to find out if there was a Mr. Big behind the union men. 

N.Y.M.P.H.O. usually seeks out the man on top, the Mr. Big, but sometimes he's too well protected and our only hope of destroying his power is to get rid of those closest to him, those doing the dirty work. We aim high but can't always get to the top. 

In this case the men who were pulling all the wires were a team known as Biow and Barker, two holdovers from the union-busting racket days of the New York waterfront and numerous other little labor wars. Whoever had hired them knew exactly who to go to for expert help. These men had been notorious for several decades now. They pulled no punches in getting employers and companies of even the greatest magnitude to knuckle under to their demands. Their technique was very simple. They represented or claimed to represent a craft union whose work was crucial to whatever industry it was they were trying to either control or extort money from. 

They threatened strikes, work stoppages, sabotage, goon squads, bombings, even kidnap pings and murders of executives' families. 

Surprisingly their technique seemed to work best with the big blue-chip companies. Companies who don't want loss of profits, unfavorable publicity, or an atmosphere that would cause key men to leave their employment. Biow and Barker had had spectacular success cutting a broad swathe across American industry. 

Mark had confided to me that he thought that their Hollywood scheme was just the first step in an eventual takeover of all mass media in the country, and that way whoever was financing them would eventually be able to control all of the opinion making apparatus in the United States. That was why Biow and Barker had to be stopped and stopped fast. 

I've known a lot of small-time Mafioso punks who liked to hang around and be seen with show business personalities. That's one reason why so many of them own nightclubs and discotheques, and one of the reasons why they love Las Vegas and other big resorts and gambling areas. 

This was different. Far more sinister intentions were involved here than having a good time and rubbing shoulders with celebrities, or maybe even getting to go to bed with a showgirl. 

Speaking of which, I could hardly wait to get a close up gander at Shana Panks. Millstein had been building her up in the press and on TV as the hottest explosion since Mt. Vesuvius. She had a pair of mounts that at least rivaled the old volcano in size if not action. I was pretty sure that it was a case of overdeveloped silicone but I couldn't wait to find out for myself. It was usually true that those babes who came on so hot and heavy as screen sexpots were more like tough-minded truck drivers when you got to know them personally. I was curious to see what her reaction would be to me as her costar. She looked like the kind of gal who would just as soon scratch your eyes out as smile at you. If there was an overdose of jealousy somewhere beneath those overdeveloped charms I could be in for a lot of trouble. 

I grabbed a small black Velvet Roberta De Roma handbag, double locked my door and wended my way down to the celebrated Polo Lounge. That was where Charles Beaumont Millstein and Co. would be assembled for our first encounter. 

I asked the maitre d' for Mr. Millstein's table. But I needn't have bothered. Charles Beaumont and associates were largely and noisily assembled at a big table center front and C.B. was holding court. 

In spite of the Hollywood phoniness that he had carefully cultivated I couldn't help liking the guy. His suntan was as phony as his compliments and he dropped names the way most people drop dishes, but he was basically a likable guy. There's something about that brash type that I sort of go for anyway. There's a lot to be said for the kind of guy who makes it on his own without anybody helping him. Then too, Millstein had had the courage to come to N.Y.M.P.H.O. instead of kowtowing to the racketeers the way most of the other producers were doing. That took a lot of guts. 

"Darling!” he shouted, springing up from his chair when he saw me, C.B. was carefully at tired in an impeccably cut Ralph Lauren suit, a stunning Ralph Lauren shirt, and a Ralph Lauren contrasting tie. Everything he wore was Ralph Lauren-with the possible exception of his underwear. 

“C.B. dearest, how are you?” I asked in a soft husky voice, fluttering my lashes at him. 

“Marvelous, just marvelous now that you're here,” was his reply. If anyone at the table took that as having more significance than a mere surface greeting it didn't show. I glanced hurriedly at the other people at the table, smiling flashily in all directions. 

"Here, let me introduce you," Millstein offered. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the one and only, and my next superstar, Miss Coco Madrid!” 

The way he made the announcement I was almost expecting a small smattering of applause but nobody moved. 

"And Coco," Millstein went on, “here is my superstar. This lady can teach you everything you have to know, as a matter of fact,” and he laughed nervously glancing around at the other men at the table. “We've all learned quite a lot from Shana, haven't we boys?” 

A polite titter was heard from the other occupants of the table. Shana Panks and I were the only females present. Millstein had choreographed this meeting as carefully as he would have a production number in one of his films. Shana and I stood out not only because of our own natural attributes but because we were surrounded by men, just men. To have had any other females present would have been very gauche and Charles Beaumont Millstein had learned how to avoid that. 

The waiter swiftly brought over a chair and I sank my bottom into it. I was directly opposite Shana and I gave her a big smile. "I've always admired your films so much, Miss Panks,” I ad libbed. “I'm sure I'm just going to love working with you!” 

"Likewise,” she said and then pressing her famous voluptuous lips a little bit she got her other features into a set expression which never changed during the rest of the lunch. . 

I had seen dummies before but Shana Panks was a mannequin right out of some department store window. Millstein's method for directing her must have been to cut out a hole in her back and insert a tape recorder, I thought. The bitch didn't make another move the entire time we sat there. 

Not that she had to. It was obvious from the expressions of the other men at the table that she had them enthralled. It was enough for them to be in such close proximity to her that they didn't expect anything more. And believe me they weren't disappointed. 

"And here's the lucky man who's going to be playing between you two ladies,” Millstein continued the introductions. “If you'll pardon the pun.” He smiled and the same smiles were echoed around the table once again. “Coco I want you to meet—Robin Renford.” Again he made the introduction as if there was a full house present and a spotlight about to fall. 

I turned slightly in my seat to face Renford. He flashed me that famous blond-haired blue-eyed smile that had millions of females all over the world gasping for breath. I had been kind of surprised that he was involved in a Millstein production, which was after all just a couple of steps up from out-and-out porno. Renford had already made a big rep as a top movie super star. I wondered why he was getting involved in this. 

His manners were very charming but I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't at least made a semblance of standing up when we were introduced. Later I was to find out that it was because of his extreme sensitivity about his height or rather the lack of it. As the screen's number one leading man he was expected, along with having perfect teeth, broad shoulders, and other obvious attributes of the ideal man, to be taller than he was—which was why he stood up as seldom as possible. 

None of the other men at the table were anywhere near as attractive. The three yes-men who Millstein introduced me to were the usual young pseudo-hip-hotshots who were the middle stratum of the Hollywood hierarchy. These were the guys who would either spend their en tire lives as hangers-on and runners-up to more successful men, or if they had the brains and talent and sometimes just the luck, would strike sparks on their own, and move out to set their own thing into orbit. I'm sure that each of them had his own name but in the blur of introductions I just sort of had them stuck in my mind as Stanley, Hanly, and Manly. And from that time on it was the way I thought of them. 

Rounding out the party were two other men who were quite different from the trio of assist ant and associate director, or whatever—the infamous Biow and Barker. The men who were the main reason that I was here. I was sure to get their identity straight. Biow was the taller and more imposing of the two. He was beetle-browed with a shock of dark hair reaching down to his neck. There was something scruffled looking about him. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. His clothes just didn't seem right. While I couldn't discern any grease spots on his necktie or anything that obvious it was as if his whole body carried an aura of tattle-tale gray. His shirt was somewhat dingy. His jacket was badly cut and stiff. He also could have used a shave. He was for the most part as quiet as Shana Parks, very seldom taking part in the lively discussion that Millstein conducted around the table. 

Barker on the other hand was squat and broad. He didn't have that much to contribute either. But compared to Biow he was another Charlie McCarthy. Maybe, I thought, Biow cut a hole in his back and put a tape recorder in. He looked like the kind of guy, this Mr. Biow, who could just as soon cut out your heart as look at you. Barker for all his seeming sociability had a nasty glint around the eyes that was obvious enough to set my teeth on edge. It didn't seem to bother the other people at the table at least not to the extent where they showed it, but I guess I'd had more exposure to professional killers and musclemen than any of those Hollywood types and I was just more aware of the potential trouble that I knew was lurking just barely beneath the surface of his eyes. 

Now that he had his entire audience assembled Charles Beaumont Millstein went into production. The alleged purpose of this lunch meeting was to welcome me to Hollywood and to fill me in on the details of the production I would be costarring in. Of course it was nothing but a grandstand play. Any information that I needed in order to maintain my cover would be provided by the script. The real point of this little get-together was to give me a look at Biow and Barker. 

Millstein went on describing various scenes in our forthcoming epic in the most grandiose manner. I realized that there would be very little info that he would be able to give me without an audience being present. Although her expression was almost static, my trained eyes couldn't fail to see the displeasure and annoyance that flickered briefly in Shana Panks' eyes every time Millstein directed a comment specifically to me or smiled too long in my direction. The bitch was as jealous as a tigress in heat. And from the swelling emotion of her really spectacular bosom I guessed that she really was. 

Right now those expensively trained eyes of mine were going through quite an ordeal. If I looked at Charles Beaumont Millstein too much, I could see daggers rising from Shana. And while it was awfully difficult to keep my eyes off Renford, who was one hell of a gorgeous hunk of prime male, I was supposed to be familiarizing myself with Biow and Barker. But every time I tried to glance surreptitiously at that dynamic duo I got back, ice rings from Biow for my pain. Then when one of Millstein's trio would go off for a minute he would have to be rewarded with at least a look and a smile. All in all it was like playing a game of Chinese ping-pong. Using my eyes for the balls. 

Millstein went on and on. But I think that only his yes-men were really on his wavelength. Shana was bored; any conversation that didn't have to do with her or her bedroom manners seemed to be beyond her interest or grasp. Renford was more interested in who else was in the room was looking at him than he was in the people at his own table. Biow looked as out of place as an undertaker in a circus. It was obviously not his idea of action. As for me, I really couldn't have cared less about the whole thing. It was just a job, and my only concern was the caliber and the capability of those two shadowy figures at the outer perimeter of the group. 

Much as I tried to concentrate on Millstein's enthusiastic description of his proposed nude underwater ballet my mind couldn't help flipping back to the data I had been given by Mark on the past accomplishments of Biow and Barker. 

I recalled especially something that had happened back in the fifties concerning a seafarer's union. New York harbor had been so strewn with corpses that the water level had risen at least six inches and the Hudson River was flowing red all the way to Albany. After it was over it was whispered broadly about that not a ship left the docks without leaving something behind for Biow and Barker. 

Biow was the brains of the operation as well as the commanding force behind the muscle. He didn't hold any official post or sit on the governing board of any of the unions but he was a shadowy presence in the council of many of the biggest, most important ones. He was further notorious for working both sides of the street to his advantage. Playing games with the management boys as often as he did with the union biggies. 

I remembered one spectacular case where the six-year-old son of the president of a food canning company had been kidnapped. All trucks in the United States had stopped moving for 24 consecutive hours until the child was found. I had it on good authority that Biow was behind not only the work stoppage but the actual kidnapping. Interestingly enough the ransom has never been recovered. 

Twenty years later Biow had money, power, almost unlimited influence throughout the country, and yet he still retained the meanness of a street-trained killer who will go for the jugular every time. His innate cruelty kept him at the top of his trade long past the time when another man might have been content to pick up his ball and jacks, take his loot and retire comfortably for the rest of his life. 

But not this guy. I knew that the moment I first saw him. It was in the cold steel of his eyes and the set jut of his jaw. And in the unmistakable cruelty that played about his mouth. 

I couldn't wait to get my hands on him. 

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