SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

I was browsing through the Japanese section of a metropolitan museum when I saw the somewhat plump, elderly Japanese gentleman. He was extremely well-dressed, dapper, in fact, but it was not his Pierre Cardin suit and Bill Blass tie that caught my eye, but his florid coloring under a mop of silvery white hair. The man was obviously terrified.

His black eyes darted here and there as he slunk from display case to display case, crouching down as though those glass walls might hide him from any pursuer. His lips writhed back to show fine white teeth, and there were drops of sweat on his high forehead.

I grew interested, for I have seen a lot of men look just this way. My name is Priscilla Delissio, though most folks call me Cherry Delight. I work for the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization, more usually known as N.Y.M.P.H.O., being a Femme Fatale in that deadly branch of the Mafia fighters. Normally, I would have said that some mobsters were after this man, but since he was a Japanese, and since The Family had not yet invaded Tokyo and environs, to my knowledge, I figured I was wrong.

Still, I was interested in him and his terror.

He was afraid of someone or something. That much was quite clear. If I could help a fellow human in distress, I would, even if no Mafiosi were involved.

I started toward him. At the same time he swung about the display case where I was standing, and bumped into me. I thought the man would die. He jerked and shuddered, the breath hissed in his throat, and his knees buckled.

My hands grabbed him. His head swung around, saw the face I have been told is beautiful, and my red hair which was worn in a topknot this particular day.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked softly.

His eyes pulled back into his head and he shook his head violently from side to side. “Is nothing wrong, is not.”

“Oh, come on.” I wheedled. “You can tell me.”

“You being girl, is no use. But thanking you just the same.”

I grinned at him. He was a like-able old gent, rather handsome in his way, and very polite. He even made one of those ceremonial bows the Japanese indulge in now and then. His tie had come loose and hung outside his jacket. I straightened it and tucked it back into place even as I went on smiling.

“I’m some kind of girl,” I told him. “I’ve killed men that needed killing, before now. I’m an expert shot, I wear the black belt in judo, which as you must know, is just about as good as you can get.

His eyes really sparkled. “Black belt wearer? You must being pretty good.”

“The only people who complain are those I throw around,” I giggled, and he laughed.

Some of the tension went out of him. I tucked my arm in his and brought him toward one of the display cases where some dark gray pottery was placed side by side with some of a reddish color. The printed card said these were Ainu products, made by that hairy, mysterious people who live in the northernmost Japanese islands.

“Tell me about these,” I urged, waving a hand.

His eyes touched the pottery, glanced at the empty doorway behind us. “Ainu work. The dark gray very early, called jomon-doki. The other is later work, called yayoi-chiki.”

“Some of them look almost Polynesian.”

The old gentleman shrugged, said, “Nobody knows where the Ainu came from. They say they came to Japan on the back of a big white dog that swam in the ocean. Only dwarfish people there, at that time. Ainu kill them all, take over.”

He warmed to his subject, forgetting his fear, which was what I wanted. He told me a little about the history of early Japan, how waves of immigrants had come there, supposedly from the Pacific islands, and had driven the Ainu northward.

We moved slowly from one display case to another, with my companion showing a rare knowledge of art. There were copies of frescoes from the Horyuji monastery dating back to the sixth century, we paused before paintings by such historically great painters as Eshin Sozu and Kobo-daishi, we stood admiringly in front of Ukiyo-e woodcuts and painted screens. The old gentleman commented knowingly on all of them.

I saw that his mind was occupied with these artistic displays, he had forgotten his terror for the moment. Oh, it would come back, but I meant to stay beside him until he was back in his hotel, or wherever it was he lodged.

We moved slowly from one case to another, strolling beside the walls where tapestries hung along side paintings, and little statuettes rested on shelves. He told me that the Chinese had called Japan, Jih-pen, and that western merchants who traded with both nations had put this name on their maps.

We could scarcely continue walking through the museum all day, however; it was nearly closing time, and now my new-found friend began scanning his wrist-watch nervously.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll stay beside you. Nothing is going to happen.”

He gave me a weak smile and a glance that seemed to say, What can a mere girl do to help me? I didn’t know, but I figured that I could do something. I’m pretty good at thinking up spur-of-the-moment solutions.

My hand shook his arm in a friendly way. “I mean what I say. I’ll walk along beside you, nobody will do anything while you’re with me.”

In Japanese, he said, “No one can help me. I am doomed. Keiji Tetsuko has said so.”

“Who’s Keiji Tetsuko?”

He blinked. “You know the Japanese?”

“A little. Not as well as I understand Italian and German, to say nothing of French. But I can make my needs known.”

All members of N.Y.M.P.H.O. who are Femmes Fatales must also be expert linguists. It’s part of our training, along with such things as judo and Burmese boxing. Maybe he read my confidence in my eyes, because he relaxed just a little and patted my hand.

“I would not subject such a pretty girl to the ministrations of the yakuza who serve Keiji Tetsuko.”

“Yakuza. That means a good for nothing, doesn’t it?”

“It is the name we give Japanese mobsters.”

“Like the Mafia?” I asked in sheer surprise.

“Something like that, yes. It is a new thing in Japan, this mobsterism. But it exists, it is an outgrowth of our economic surge, our vast industrialization since the war.”

“Imagine that,” I murmured. “Here I am on a Sunday afternoon, just minding my own business, and the Japanese Mafia stick their noses into my affairs.”

He looked puzzled as I talked. It was my turn to pat his hand and tell him I would explain later. I caught his arm and walked closely beside him all the way to the front door. Over my other shoulder I wore my Gucci shoulder bag and in it was the Gold Cup Colt automatic that had been my companion on so many of my cases. The bag was open, I could reach that Colt in a split second.

We saw no one. It was a quiet museum through which we went, with only an occasional couple here and there, or a small family marveling over the treasures on display. Not a Mafia in sight, I told myself.

The big front doors were wide open, we went through them and into warm sunlight. We stood a moment, my eyes going up and down the street. My companion was beginning to shiver again, the fear was starting up and his ruddy face was turning a sickly gray.

“Must be going now,” he kept muttering, trying to disengage his arm. “Must go alone, alone.”

“It would be safer with me beside you,” I murmured.

He shook his head. “Bad for girl, bad for girl. Not want you to be in danger.”

I let him free himself, immediately he went down the stone steps toward the sidewalk. He was deathly scared, I felt pity for him. Nobody likes to die, and a violent death is the most fearful one to be faced. Or maybe it is the anticipation that so terrifies one.

Like a statue, I remained on that broad top step, but unlike a statue, I used my eyes. I watched the men and women, seeing nothing at which to take alarm.

Then the little yellow Datsun came along the street. Instinctively, my heart leaped and hammered. There were two Japanese men inside the yellow car.

I beat feet down those stone steps, three at a time. My right hand went into the Gucci and came out with the Colt automatic. My friend was walking slowly along the sidewalk, head turning left and right as he searched the faces of the passersby. I don’t believe he was thinking of cars.

I ran like hell.

Even so, the Datsun beat me.

I saw the man in the suicide seat beside the driver lift a tommy-gun from the floor. All I needed to add wings to my Beth Levines was that. I fairly flew across the sidewalk even as people turned and stared.

Leaving my feet in a diving tackle, I cannonaded into the old Japanese man just as the tommy-gun started its chatter. It seemed I could feel the wind of those bullets as they passed directly above my head.

I hit the man as a pro football blocking back takes out a would-be tackler. He gave one frightened screech, then went off his feet. I landed on him, used his prone body as a perch from which to fire.

The Datsun was moving away.

Those killers thought they had done their job, I felt sure. They had seen their quarry go down with a red-headed girl, they probably thought I’d been killed, too.

My left hand grabbed my right wrist. The Colt was in my right hand. I steadied the gun, took quick aim. The automatic bucked in my hand. All around me people were screaming and yelling, drawing away from me or flopping down on the sidewalk alongside the Japanese guy.

I ran forward. My bullet had caught a tire of the Datsun, causing it to swerve to one side. The Jap with the tommy-gun exploded into the street, whirled to face me.

I have often wondered what his thoughts were, at that moment. He must have believed me to be a mad-woman. Or maybe he reasoned I was a lady cop. At any rate, the tommy-gun came up, aimed right at me.

My Gold Cup got off its shot first.

The bullet took him in the chest, tossed him backward against the car where he sagged, pupils rolling up in his head. I could make out the hole in his chest, where his heart ought to be. Blood was oozing out of that hole.

My feet beat the sidewalk. The driver was stepping out of the Datsun, I wanted to get him, too. But I only wanted to wound him, not to kill. I needed his tongue to tell me who was after my friend.

He had no gun, I saw, so I shoved the Colt automatic back inside the Gucci. The Jap was coming for me, hands out in the traditional judo approach. I guess he figured a pretty redhead would be no match for his knowledge of the art.

His right arm flashed up and came down toward my throat. My hands went to his right wrist even as I swung about to apply the ippon seoi nage, which is really nothing more or less than the shoulder throw. There are defenses to this hold, but I took him by surprise, and before he could recover from it, his body was rising into the air, flying gracefully.

He landed heavily, on the side of his head.

I hadn’t meant to throw him so viciously, but I am used to practicing with Nordic types, big men with plenty of weight to them. My muscles responded instinctively to those practice sessions, and the Jap who had been driving that car was a little man, weighing no more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

My feet took me to him, I knelt down and studied his head. It was tilted at an angle, I would have bet money that when he landed, his neck had snapped.

The Japanese gentleman was pushing his way through the crowd, his face etched with concern for my safety. When he saw the two dead men, he got a funny look on his face.

Right on his heels came two of New York’s Finest, emerging from a squad car and shoving their way between the men and women to stand beside me.

“What’s going on?” one of them asked.

I explained that the two dead men had tried to kill this Japanese gentleman. I grabbed my friend by the sleeve and urged him forward. He was still scared, though not so much so. His eyes went from me to the cops, and back again.

“Is that what happened?” a cop growled.

The Japanese would have pulled away, but my grip was too strong on him. He shook his head and exclaimed in Japanese that he wanted no trouble with the police.

The cops looked at me hard.

It seemed to me one of them was reaching for his handcuffs. I snapped, “Wait a darned minute. I have my ident in my bag.” I got it out and showed it to them.

“I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O., this gentleman was almost killed by these thugs. Look! That one with the bullet-hole in his chest is still hanging on to his tommy-gun.”

One of the cops went over and sniffed the barrel. He nodded, saying, “It’s been shot, all right. And recently.”

“You can probably find the bullets in that building wall,” I told him, pointing. “Anyway, they missed us.”

The Japanese man had not run as I expected him to do. When I pulled my ident wallet from the Gucci bag, he’d seemed most interested. His eyes had gone to the picture and the printing with an intent air.

Now he fidgeted and shuffled his feet. “Is what happened as the lady says,” he muttered to the cop who was standing beside us. “I am merchant from Japan, in New York on business. My name is Saburo Hamokada.”

It was my turn to stare at him. Saburo Hamokada was one of the wealthiest men in Japan, his visit to Fun City had been featured in the Times and the Post. He owned all sorts of industries and businesses, he manufactured cars and radios, television sets and even tractors.

His smile was shy. “Not want get in trouble,” he explained, referring to the fact that he had denied me a few minutes ago. “That wallet you have. Is important?”

“It’s my identification, it explains that I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O.”

“What is nympho?”

I explained our organization and how it and its agents like myself are dedicated to fighting the Mafiosi. He grew visibly more excited at my every word, until I was done, he was almost dancing.

“You come working for me. I pay you good. Hundred thousand dollars, even more.”

One of the cops looked disgusted. I said to him, “You don’t have red hair.”

“Nor boobs like those,” his fellow officer muttered under his breath.

My breasts are rather large, and the knit suit I was wearing didn’t do anything to hide them. As a matter of fact, the fabric gripped them very firmly, so that my nipples were showing.

However, I said loftily, “They have nothing to do with the situation. I saved Mister Hamokada’s life, and he’s just grateful.”

The cops looked weary of it all. “You’ll have to come down to the station-house and sign a report. Both of you.”

It took us about two hours, all told, what with slow police typists and such. It was Sunday and things never seem to go smoothly on Sundays, for some reason. When we were done, Saburo Hamokada insisted that he treat me to dinner, it was the least he could do, though he would show his gratitude in a more substantial manner.

“Besides, I am interest in nympho,” he concluded.

A free meal is a free meal. I said I’d be delighted to go along with him. The old gentleman said he would like a seafood dinner, and if I liked seafood and knew a restaurant where it was served, would I give directions to a cabby. I would and did.

As we were devouring a delicious lobster thermador, Saburo Hamokada said he meant his offer to me of one hundred thousand dollars for one year of employment. When I protested that this was too much (I draw a damn good salary but it isn’t any hundred thousand dollars), he waved aside my protests with a neatly manicured hand.

“What is money when one is dead? Nothing. Less than the wind murmuring through the pines of Morioka.”

He was speaking in Japanese, so I replied in the same language. “Maybe so, but I have a job. I doubt very much if I could get a leave of absence. Certainly not for a year.”

He thought about this, chewing contentedly on lobster. “Is maybe as you saying. I will go seeing nympho people.” He got a funny look in his eyes. “This nympho not all girls, is?”

I cracked up, but managed to explain why N.Y.M.P.H.O. had been founded and why it continued. I even explained a little of the sort of work I do for that organization. He was so interested, he almost forgot to eat.

When I finished, he nodded his head vigorously. “Is what I want, I think, Am sure, even.”

I thought about Japan and cherry blossoms for a few moments, then said, “I could introduce you to Avery King. He’s the Coordinator, the big boss of N.Y.M.P.H.O. He would be delighted to meet you”

“Tomorrow morning,” Saburo Hamokada nodded, “we go seeing him. Is good.”

“It’ll cost you,” I warned him. “While the organization lends out its agents in special cases, it always demands a fee for their services.”

“I will pay good.”

This was the answer I wanted, so I began to dream about Tokyo and the gay night life there, Japanese subways that my friends tell me are even more crowded than New York subways. I had the feeling that I would get the job, if Avery King decided to send somebody, so I might as well get in the mood.

We had sherbet and strong coffee, and lingered over these for such a long time that I began to suspect that Saburo Hamokada didn’t want to go home. He was staying at the Waldorf, I knew, which was a safe hotel by any standards.

Still, the memory of that moment when those two Jap killers had fired off the tommy-gun at him lingered on. I lit a cigarette, blew smoke and then waved it away with a hand.

“Tell you what,” I murmured. “Why don’t you come sleep at my pad tonight? That way, we can get an early start for the N.Y.M.P.H.O. offices.”

I didn’t mention the fact that he would be safe with me, I had no reason to offend his male ego. He brightened visibly, though he wore a puzzled frown.

“What is pad? You sleep on floor like some Japanese?”

“Pad is just mod talk for apartment. Or room, or house, wherever you lay your head at night.”

I explained some American slang terms to him. He listened avidly, nodding from time to time. He was a bright old boy, nothing escaped those sharp black eyes of his. Not for long, at any rate.

“We go you—your pad,” he giggled. “I much appreciate. Will pay good.”

“No pay is needed,” I told him as we made our way toward the cashier. “You’re my guest.”

He beamed. “Then you to be my guest in Tokyo. Son live there, watch over business. You be his guest.”

“His wife might not like it.”

“No got wife. Not yet. Soon, maybe.”

His gaze ran over me, and I got the feeling that he was studying me for wife material. I would have an easy enough life as his son’s wife, I’d be one of the richest women in the world, when Saburo Hamokada died. But I wasn’t ready for the wedding bell bit yet. There was too much to do, too much to see in the world around me.

The old gentleman waved down a cab, I gave my apartment address, and we settled back for the ride. I entertain younger men from time to time, like Mark Condon who works with me at N.Y.M.P.H.O., but this was the first time I’d invited such an older man. He could have been my father, as far as our ages went. I wondered if I should offer him hot milk or cocoa before seeing him to bed.

Actually, we settled for scotch on the rocks as soon as I closed my door. He had acquired the taste during the many business conferences he had held with American tycoons in the years following World War Two, when he had slowly but systematically been building up Hamokada Industries.

He admired the original paintings on the walls of my pad, nodding when I told him they had been gifts from various men and governments as rewards for my services over and above the call to duty which I heard from N.Y.M.P.H.O. He was pleasantly surprised at some of my Saarinen furniture pieces, and folded himself into an easy chair which he did not want to leave, even after midnight.

“I feel safer than I have felt in many weeks, sitting here,” he told me. “I shall sleep well, this night.”

“Talking about sleep . . .”

He chuckled, waving at me with his hand. “You go to bed, my dear. Just leave me the bottle of scotch. There are ice cubes in the bucket?”

I blew him a kiss from my bedroom doorway. He would not hear of my putting out blankets and a pillow for him. The easy chair was comfortable enough, he vowed. I shrugged and closed my bedroom door. If this was the way he wanted it, it was fine by me.

It took me half an hour to slide between my own sheets. A girl has to shower, to wash her hair, to put on cold creams and such. I was no exception. Before I turned out the bed-lamp light, I heard snores from the next room.

When I woke in the morning and tip-toed out into the living room, Saburo Hamokada was still, in that same position in which I had left him last night. There was a faint smile on his lips, his feet were crossed, and a full glass of scotch and melted ice cubes was close to his right hand.

I didn’t disturb him, I tip-toed back the way I had come, slithered out of my baby doll nightie, and ran naked for the shower. I soaped myself off, reveling in the downward cascade of water.

Drying myself off, I studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My red hair is long, it fell over my shoulders and down almost to my backside, which is pink and round and very slappable, I have been told. That long red hair gave me a little girl look, which is a big help when fighting Mafiosi, because it lulls them into believing I am no menace whatsoever.

My eyes touched my breasts, which are large and bouncy, veined in blue under the white skin. My brown nipples are large, standing up almost an inch. My waist is narrow, my hips properly broad and swingy. My legs are a fetishist’s dream, or so men have mentioned.

Quite satisfied with my appearance, I moved into my bedroom, sat on the rumpled covers, and pulled beige nylons up my legs. I strapped a black lace garter-belt about my middle, and snapped the garters into the stockings.

I ignored a bra to slide into a patchwork, fluency shirt-dress. My feet slid easily into a pair of Pappagallos. I was ready for business.

I ignored my guest to move into the kitchen where I fried bacon and scrambled eggs. The smell of toast, too, filled my kitchenette, adding to the aroma of perking coffee.

Then I went to wake Saburo Hamokada. My hand on his shoulder startled him, he jerked his head, staring disbelievingly at me. He laughed, shook his white head, and said, “I was dreaming of my homeland. It was very pleasant. The fountain in my garden was playing music and my family was all gathered around me.”

He got to his feet and stretched.

Then he said, “It was a good dream. There were no yakuza mobsters, it was like the old days.” He hesitated, then added, “I hope that you can make the old days come again in my country, Miss Delight.”

I gave him a broad smile. “I’ll see what we can do.”

He excused himself to comb his hair and make himself somewhat more presentable. When he walked into the kitchen, he seemed never to have been asleep at all. His suit was neat, his tie unrumpled.

Saburo Hamokada ate a hearty breakfast, much to his surprise.

“I have not eaten so much in the morning in a long time. Already, you are like a tonic to me.”

“I must caution you, Avery King might not send me but another agent to Japan.”

“If he does, I’ll slit his weasand for him.” I didn’t even know what a weasand was.

My guest shook his head. “No, no. I will not accept anyone but you. I will not pay for anyone but you.”

“Aha! That ought to do it. Avery King will do just about anything, if the price is right.”

“I shall make him an offer he cannot refuse.”

I laughed, “Already you know the lingo.”

I had to explain what I meant while the old man sat across from me and beamed. “I enjoy learning new things. Knowledge is a treasure no man can steal from you.”

We went down in the elevator to the lobby. As we walked toward the front door, I saw a Japanese man standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the building.