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CHAPTER ONE

The night around me was moonless and dark as I crept through the narrow alleyway in Little Italy. My Gold Cup Colt automatic was naked in my hand. I was here to kill a man who badly needed killing.

I was halfway along the alley when I saw the girl. She was crouched over, almost invisible in the shadows, but the light from a distant lamppost glinted on the revolver in her hand. I froze.

Was the Mafia hiring girl killers now?

She was breathing hard, either from anger or from fear, I couldn't tell which, but I didn't dare move. There was something about her still figure that told me she would whip around and send a bullet into me if I did.

We stood like that for several minutes. I fretted at the delay; I had a job to do. My name is Cherry Delight, and I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O., which translates into THE NEW YORK MAFIA PROSECUTION AND HARASSMENT ORGANIZATION.

I am a member of its femmes fatales division, and have a license to kill when I need to, to get my job done. Actually, of course, my real name is Patricia Delissio, and I am as Italian as pasta and osso buco. Along with my fellow N.Y.M.P.H.O. agents, I hate the Mafia with a deep and deadly hatred.

And so I watched the girl closely.

She moved, after a long time, walked straight ahead toward the end of the alleyway. Her body was framed in the light from that lamp post up ahead, she had a build I envied, and I have a body to be proud of. Her hips were wide, her legs under a short skirt were mouthwatering. I couldn't see her knockers, not with her back to me, but I'd have bet more than a cold cookie that they were mighty good.

There was this sexy air about her, you see.

I went after her, walking as she walked so that she wouldn't hear my footsteps. I wondered what in hell she was doing here, and whether or not to interfere with her. I was afraid she'd spoil my own game.

The man I was after was Boffo Rugglietti. He was a professional gun, a hired killer for the Mob, who had downed a number of very innocent businessmen because they wouldn't play ball with the Mafia and turn their profits over to the Boss of Bosses. We knew from information received from our spies in the underworld that Boffo Rugglietti was the man responsible for those murders. I was out to put an end to his killing career.

Frankly, I was damn scared, as I went after this girl, that she was going to spoil my chances at getting Boffo. I just couldn't let that happen. Somehow or other, I had to stop her from whatever it was she intended doing, and by the looks of her, it was murder she had on her mind.

She paused at the end of the alley, putting out her head to get a sneak look. I came up behind her very gently, slid my Colt into my indispensable Gucci shoulder-bag. Then I leaped.

My right hand chopped down hard on her gun wrist, paralyzing it. The gun fell to the street, I kicked it sideways with my foot, and at the same time swung her about and jammed her back against the brick wall of the building where she stood.

She opened her mouth to scream. “Shut up!" I snarled.

Her mouth came open and her eyes got very big. I guess she was surprised to see a girl. She was pretty, with dark skin and black hair worn long under a tam o' shanter. Her mouth was full and sensuous, there was a dimple in her chin. And, yes, she did have outsize knockers to go along with the rest of her, I felt them pressing into my own shapely boobs.

"Whisper when you talk," I told her. “Now what's this all about?”

“Who—who—who're you?"

"Never mind me. I'll get to me later. Right now I want to know about you."

She was sullen, there was still the aftermath of anger and fear in her that had impressed me so when she crouched in the shadows. She tried to wriggle free of my grip but I know tricks from all my judo, karate and kung fu classes. I held her as easily as though she were a baby.

"Are you a cah—cop? A policewoman?”

"In a sense. But I'm not a regular kind of cop. I belong to an organization that fights the Mafia."

Relief made her sag so much that I was almost holding her upright. Her tongue tip came out to moisten her lips.

"I'm here to kill a Mafia button," she breathed. "Not Boffo Rugglietti by any chance?"

Her eyes really got big at that. She asked, “So you know about him?”

"Sure I know. I know damn well you're not going to kill him. I'm here to do that. Is he the man you're after?”

She nodded, eyes searching my own as though to find out the truth of what I was telling her. "He killed my brother. Him and three other hoods, they were all in on it."

"That's very interesting. I didn't know about the others. Who are they?”

"I won't tell you," she exclaimed defiantly.

I gave her a big smile. "You want to kill them all yourself, is that it? Now, honey, you just listen to me. For you to do this is murder, you could get yourself sent to Sing Sing for life. Better let me do it my way."

Maybe we would have talked all night, us two girls, because what she said I found very interesting. But a door opened somewhere, we caught the sound of male voices, the smell of stale food and wine and cigar smoke. My hand tightened even more on her wrist as I dragged her into the alley.

Across the street, I could see an Italian restaurant, the word PASTA big on the board that ran its length. I made out menus fastened by scotch tape to a rather dirty window, and four men standing in the doorway, looking around them as though they were expecting a taxi to pick them up.

This was when a gun jammed into my ribs.

I have had guns stuck into me at other times in my career, I know the feel of one when it touches my body. Nor did I have to hear the voice that went with the gun to know there was a Mafia button behind it. One develops an instinct for this sort of thing, over the years.

I said, "Hi, fellas. We've been expecting you."

I turned my head then, seeing three hoods standing there, and one of them had the gun on me. They must have come up the alleyway undetected while the girl and I were having our little chat.

My words caught them by surprise. I could see their idiotic expressions by that same lamp post's radiance.

I went on talking. "We were just having a friendly argument over who gets Boffo. We're a couple of party girls, if you must know, Boffo rang up a while back and asked for us. We're here to meet him and show him a good time."

There was enough truth, in a manner of speaking, in what I said to convince him. He drew back a little, which gave me room to move.

My right arm swept around in a curving swing. My arm hit his gun wrist, drove it sideways. At the same time I brought up the barrel of the gun I held in my hand—the one I'd taken from the girl—and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went into his belly and stayed there.

I was moving all the time, lifting my free hand and pushing against the man I'd just shot, shoving him backward so that he stumbled into his companions, even as I was leaping off to one side to squeeze off two more shots.

My gunfire sounded like a small war in that narrow little alley, which it was, of course. I pumped bullets at the two men, sawdust puffs come from their clothes where they went into them.

They staggered like drunken men, falling against the brick wall and staring at me with goggle eyes.

I heard shouts.

I swung around on a heel of my Beth Levines, ready for more trouble. Those four men we'd seen outside the restaurant were pounding our way, coming into the alley. They had guns in their hands, and one man was lifting his to fire.

"Down!" I yelped.

I flopped flat on the pavement. To one side of me, the girl did the same, moaning to herself. I guess she hadn't counted on getting mixed up in a gang war; she must have figured all she had to do was pick out Boffo Rugglietti and cut him down.

My hand dropped her gun, reached inside the Gucci for the Gold Cup Colt. It was filled with bullets, the other gun was just about empty.

Flat on my belly, I put my left hand over my right wrist and steadied the Colt. I squeezed the trigger.

The man I picked out to get my first bullet stopped suddenly as it went into him, he took a faltering step to one side, then went over backwards. I saw all this out of the corners of my eyes, because as soon as I triggered lead at him I was sliding the gun sideways, picking up another button and feeling the Gold Cup jump in my hand.

The running men found it difficult to see me; I was flattened out on the street paving and made a small target. I don't believe they even saw the girl crouched flat against the wall. Maybe they saw the dead men and figured they were enemies too, because they pumped bullets at them.

I got a second man, right smack between the eyes. He went backwards, legs kicking, as he died on his feet.

Boffo Rugglietti slid to a halt. He put his hand to his chest, he tottered on shaking legs and then plunged face down to lie twitching on the pavement. The other men had halted by this time, were turning their guns toward the flashes of red light that showed where I was firing at them. I got off two shots before they could pump lead at me.

They fell as if pushed over by a giant hand.

I was on my feet, reaching out for the girl. In the distance I could hear the wail of a police siren.

"Let's split, honey," I snapped. "I don't want the cops to find us here. Not for my sake, but for yours."

She scrambled up, came at the run with me, my hand gripping hers, as we fled to the opposite end of the alleyway. I held such a good grip on her because I didn't want her to get away from me, I wanted to ask this doll some questions.

Our heels beat hollow tattoos on the pavement. When we were at the alley's end, I slid a cautious head around the edge of the building. Nobody in sight. Folks in Little Italy know when to keep their heads indoors! I saw my car parked where I had left it, and dragged the girl toward it.

"Get in," I panted, and ran around to the other door.

The motor of the rented Gold Duster purred to life, I shifted gears and eased out onto the street. As I did so, I saw a police car in my rear-view mirror, just coming around a corner.

I didn't give the Plymouth the gun, I just cruised along without a worry in the world. I wasn't going to arouse suspicion by speeding. My eyes were on that mirror. I saw the car slow down and the two cops get out. Then I turned the corner and fled away.

My companion sat slouched in the suicide seat, her short skirt pulled up to give me a good view of shapely legs in black nylons. She was wearing a skirt and a black sweater, with that dark tam o' shanter on her head. Her eyes were closed, she was breathing in deep gulps of air.

"Feel better about it?" I asked. "Much. I was plenty scared, back there."

"If you'd tried to kill Boffo, the others would have killed you.”

Her eyes slid sideways at me. "They didn't kill you."

“Honey, I'm trained to kill. I'm a crack shot with a handgun or a rifle, automatic or otherwise. I wear the red and white judo belt, which is a notch above the black belt. I'm an expert at karate, at kung fu, and I might add, at Burmese kickboxing."

"You're quite a girl aren't you?”

Did I detect a note of sarcasm in her voice? I slid my eyeballs at her; she was looking at me with those sultry dark eyes, taking me in, as it were, and making some sort of judgment about me.

"Let's get one thing straight," I snapped. "I'm all woman, too. I have all the physical qualifications you have, which are plenty, I'll admit, but I'll match them, any time."

She gave me a friendly smile. "I'm sorry. I suppose I sound like a cat. I didn't mean to. Maybe I'm just the wee bit jealous."

"Oh? How so??

She seemed to snuggle a little deeper in the seat as she turned eyes front. I thought that was a great idea, especially since I was driving, so I did the same thing.

"I've led a very sheltered life," she murmured after a time. I've never really done anything worthwhile. I don't even have a job. My father..."

She hesitated, then plunged on. "My name is Donna Avicella. You know the Avicella part, I'm sure."

There was bitterness in her throat as she spat out her words. I couldn't account for it, until...

"Hey!" I sat up straight. "Some years back there was a big-shot among the Mafia bosses named Avicella. Somebody murdered him in a gang war."

"My father.”

"Oh! Honey, I'm sorry."

"No need to be. It was the way he lived, with death at his elbow every day of his life. And night too, I might add. You're right. A mob bullet cut him down, he left a fortune.

"I have a brother. I had a brother, rather, until a couple of weeks ago. He took Papa's money and went into legitimate business. Tony was good at business, he had a great head for profit and loss. He more than doubled Papa's money in the time he took over its control."

I didn't look, but I was damn sure there were tears in her eyes. She gulped a couple of times and I waited as I eased the car toward the bridge that would take us into Manhattan, for her to continue.

After a time, she did.

"The boss of bosses became interested in Tony. After all, he reasoned, he had taken Mafia money which my father had earned, and made some great investments with it. Still, it was mob money, it belonged to The Family.

"He sent men to see Tony, to demand a share of those profits Tony was piling up. Tony told him to go shove.

"So a hit contract was drawn up. Four men took that contract, they worked together on it. One of those men was Boffo Rugglietti.”

"And you came down to Little Italy to get him."

She smiled faintly. "You stopped me to get him yourself. I suppose I should be grateful. Boffo is dead, but I didn't kill him. And three more of the capo di tutti capo's men are still alive and doing his dirty work."

There wasn't very much else to say; I concentrated on my driving. After a time Donna Avicella stirred and looked around her.

"Are you just driving around to shake off any pursuit, or do you have a place in mind you're taking me?" she asked.

"A little of both, I guess. I'm doing some thinking as I drive, and I'm getting the ghost of an idea."

"What kind of an idea?”

"I want to take you to meet a man who may help you. You game?”

“Will he help me kill the other three men who did this to my brother?”

"We—ell, maybe not you, but somebody will, with your help."

“How can I help?”

“You know the killers. We don't.”

She thought about it for a time, then nodded. "All right. What've I got to lose? My life isn't worth a damn to me; I'm sick of it, if I can do anything at all to help, I will."

“Good. Then we'll go home to my place."

"Why your place? Just drop me off at a subway station, I can make my way home by myself. I'm a big girl now."

"You're too valuable to risk.”

"What risk?"

"Don't you think the Mafia is asking as many questions as the police, right about now, or as soon as they learn of the deaths of seven of their buttons? Count 'em, Donna. I killed seven Mafia hoods tonight. Your capo di tutti capo will want to know why and who did it. He may settle on you as being the guilty one."

She hooted. "I couldn't have killed those seven men, and he knows it. One, maybe. Boffo. But not all those others."

"You could have hired somebody. Sure, sure. You didn't, but he doesn't know that. If I were he—and over the years, I've grown to be able to think like a capo—I'd send men to grab you and torture you into talking."

"To—torture me?” She shuddered.

"These men don't play games, love. Sure torture. They'd do anything to pay back the blood debt they think they owe somebody."

"I—I guess I really started something tonight," she muttered weakly.

"I'll finish it for you, if I can. Well, what about it? Is it my place and a good night's sleep, with maybe dreams of getting Tony avenged, or going back where you won't be safe?"

It was my place, of course. Donna Avicella was no dope, she caught the note of truth in my voice, she knew instinctively, too, that the boss of bosses would not hesitate to do what I said he would do. She sighed and laid her head against the seat rest and let me take her to my apartment.

I have quite a posh pad, if I do say so myself. N.Y.M.P.H.O. pays its agents well, and why not, they risk their necks every damn day and night of the year. When I drew up before the big apartment building with the double glass doors and uniformed attendant, Donna sat up straight and opened her sultry eyes wide.

"You live here?" she gasped.

"In solitary splendor. Well, it isn't solitary all the time, if you know what I mean. I have a friend in from time to time."

"Like me, now."

"Sort of," I giggled. "I was thinking of men friends, really."

She gave me a conspiratorial smile as she eased those gams of hers out of the car and stood up. We were much of the same size, as I told her while we walked across the sidewalk to the door, some of my things might fit her.

The attendant's eyes opened a little when he saw us side by side. My hair is red, hers was black, but we were both living sex symbols, or so I thought. Maybe she had the same idea because those pouty red lips of hers quivered into a smile. We hip-swung our way past him and let him admire the tremblings of our buttock cheeks as we made our way to an elevator.

Donna burst into giggles as the car took us upward to my floor. "I thought his eyes would pop!"

"We are something of a double-barreled sex shotgun, the two of us," I laughed, letting my eyes roam over her thrusting breasts and downward to her sloping hips.

She grew thoughtful. "This may help us with the Mafia," she murmured soberly. "Those men are usually such animals, anything smelling of sex seems to steal away their wits."

I patted her arm. "I found that out a long time ago, Donna. It's part of my stock in trade, so to speak."

The key in my apartment lock let us into darkness that dissipated as my finger flicked a wall switch. Donna stood looking around her at the stereo set, the mahogany bar that comes fully equipped for all drinking needs, at the big sofa and chairs, the thick rug, the paintings on the wall and carvings standing here and there on tables and end tables.

"Wow," she said thoughtfully. "Hey wow."

I sauntered toward the bar. "A lot of them are gifts," I admitted. “And not from admiring boyfriends, but from grateful people I've helped the world over. Care for a drink?"

"I'm not much of a drinker," she told me, "but right now I find myself in need of something."

"Vermouth? Wine?”

"Oh, something stronger than that. What's a martini?”

I stared at her. Oh, well. If she got a little drunkeee, I could always push her into bed and pull up the covers to let her sleep it off. My hands reached out for a bottle of Tanqueray gin and some dry vermouth.

I made myself one as well, and carried her glass to her. She sipped, made a wry face, then gave me a smile. "It's tart, but I think I like it."

"It's strong," I felt I ought to warn her. "It may go to your head."

"Oh, I'm used to wine."

"They're not in the same league, honey."

We wandered into my bedroom, I got out a sheer nightie for her, brand new that I hadn't worn myself as yet, and tossed it on the bed.

"Slither into that, and we'll take turns at the shower. I feel the need for some soap and water."

She nodded, put down the martini and reached for the bottom of her sweater, lifting it up over her head. My eyes went with womanly curiosity to her heavy breasts. They were unbrassiered, stark naked, with berry-red nipples pushing outward. They shook and quivered to her every movement. Without a look at me, she slid down her short skirt, leaving her in black pantyhose. Under the reinforced crotch piece, I saw a mass of curling black hair.

I slid free of my own dark dress, showing what I had in bra and panties. There was a garter-belt around my middle, and beige stockings gartered to it.

Donna drank the rest of her martini and held out her glass to me. “Could I have another, please?”

"You sure you want another? You'll be sloshed in no time, if you aren't used to those things."

"Mmmm—hmmm. Another. I never felt better in my life.”

"Well, if you say so."

I went into the living room, Donna trailing after me. I had just made her another martini and was in the act of handing it to her when a knock came at the door.