The Secret (22 page)

That whole deal in Philadelphia was a pisser, an absolute pisser. Don Napolitano—Ice Cream—was whacked out. Don Enrico—the Chef—was whacked out. And we’d had, supposedly, a cozy relationship with both of them. Jimmy Lead Eyes told Sal we had to be nuts. Then Jimmy Lead Eyes got whacked out. He was found with a cigarillo between his teeth and a bullet hole between his eyes.

This kind of stuff wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. The problem was that men like Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello, Cosa Nostra statesmen who had worked to keep the peace, were gone. A new breed of dons had come along, cowboys who wanted to make their mark fast—amateurs compared to the old guard. John Gotti was typical of them: reckless and flamboyant, impulsive and cruel, swaggering. Some of the older
capi
complained he was giving Cosa Nostra a bad name.

What was more, for the time being there was no
capo di tutti capi
and no commission. There was no one who could demand peace and enforce it. In a real sense, nobody was in charge. Nobody could make rules and make them stick.

In Philadelphia there was no one I could go to and say, “Look, I’m not a made guy and don’t belong to nobody. I’ll cooperate with anybody. Just tell me who.”

If there had been anyone I could have talked to, I figure he might have said something like this to me: “Okay, Cooper. You exchanged the kiss of peace with the Chef. Then you turned around and let Ice Cream collect dues from your workers, plus you hired his truck to deliver your merchandise. You’re right when you say you don’t belong to nobody. You’re fair game for anybody.”

At least we would have known where we stood. As it was, we didn’t know from what direction the knife might come. It was possible nobody gave a damn about us. The dons had plenty to worry about without giving much attention to four little stores selling women’s undies. Both dons had been a little condescending, after all.

We had four stores in Philly. Sal and I talked about closing them. But to hell with that. We might
get
run out of town. We weren’t going to
just
run.

“It may be dangerous,” Sal warned me. “Those guys don’t play fair.”

“It may be,” I agreed.

We weren’t about to have other truckloads of merchandise blown up. I sent Sal over to Jersey City to talk to the heirs of Tony Provenzano. We arranged that our stuff would be driven from New York to Jersey in New York trucks driven by Teamsters. In Jersey the stuff was transferred to other trucks and driven to Philly in tracks driven by other Teamsters men who worked for the Provenzanos. I figured none of the Boiardos, one family or another of them, would want to provoke a gang war by attacking those trucks. And I was right. Our shipments went through without trouble. The off-loading and reloading ran up our costs, but it was worth it.

Okay, I was right. But I had fucked the Boiardos, both clans of them, the Enrico Boiardos and the Napolitano Boiardos—which were still active families in spite of the fact that their dons had been whacked out. One time the Enrico heirs highjacked a truck driven by a Jersey Teamster—to test the waters, I suppose. The heirs of Tony Pro took quick and effective revenge, killing a nephew of Don Enrico.

What the hell? It wasn’t my fault. If these people were animals, they were animals. I didn’t make them animals. They didn’t get that way from anything I’d done. You can rationalize anything, anything at all, with thinking like that.

*   *   *

One evening I was sitting at a table in Bookbinder’s. I was negotiating with a painting contractor about repainting the inside of two stores. He was supposed to meet me for dinner, and he was late.

“Excuse me. You’re Jerry Cooper, aren’t you?”

I looked up into the face of the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life, more beautiful even than Giselle, though I am reluctant ever to say that.

I’m not sure what it was about her that made her the most beautiful girl I had ever seen; all I knew was that she was. She had high, visible cheekbones, and her jawbone clearly defined her chin. Her face was long, her hairline high, giving her a tall forehead. Her shoulder-length glossy blond hair was simply styled to hang smooth, with no sharp lines. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were blue, light blue with little flecks of green. Her nose was straight and short. Her lips were full and sensuous.

Her face was, in fact, flawless.

She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans that rode her hips and would have revealed her navel except for her tucked-in yellow Izod shirt. She was, in fact, not dressed for Bookbinder’s, and was a little conspicuous there.

“I’m called Filly—Filly O’Reilly. My name is Philadelphia, actually, but everybody calls me Filly., like a little female horse. You wouldn’t be aware of this, but I work for you.”

“Really? Where?”

“Walnut Street. Can you spare me a minute? I hope I’m not interrupting or interfering, but can you spare me just a minute? You’re waiting for someone. I’ll get right up as soon as he—or she—comes in. Okay?”

“Sure. Sit down.”

I was already fantasizing about her.

She sat down in the chair to my right. “I have a little problem,” she said, “and—”

She was interrupted by a waiter who asked if she would like a drink. She hesitated. I said of course she would. She asked for a martini up, with an olive.

“A problem with your job?” I asked her.

“Sort of. It’s embarrassing, Mr. Cooper. My problem is with Mr. Nero.”

I nodded. I could imagine. I knew he banged the help, and I could understand he would never overlook Filly O’Reilly. “The problem is?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

“When he comes to Philadelphia, he wants to … screw. Wants to? He insists! And he hurts me, Mr. Cooper. He’s a monster. He’s more than I can take. Did you know that? Did you know he’s got…”

I knew what she meant.

“After he screws me, I’m sore for days,” she went on. “The last time I was bleeding and had to see a doctor. The doctor said Mr. Nero had torn me. If he’d take it a little easy, it might not be so bad. But he won’t. And he won’t leave me alone, either. Honestly, Mr. Cooper, I’m afraid of him. I really am.”

I believed her. This wasn’t the first time a girl had complained of Sal’s size and vigor—though they usually didn’t complain to
me.

“What do you think I can do about it?” I asked.

“I figured you’d have more influence over him than I do. I’ve got none, almost.”

“Why don’t you just tell him no, you won’t go out with him?”

“I’m afraid he’ll fire me. Anyway, he knows where I live. He took me home one night, late. I’m afraid he’ll come to my door. Mr. Nero is a scary guy. I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.”

The waiter brought her martini. She took a demure sip. She was a girl of great contrasts. She sipped her drink so modestly I wondered if she would not have drunk it through a straw if she had one.

“How’d you know where to find me?” I asked.

“I overheard Louise calling for your reservation.”

“How come I didn’t see you?”

“I was in the back room, where we model things. I was showing off some hard-on undies. You know … undies that give guys hard-ons. Like that. We don’t come out in the main store when we’re wearing undies and so on.”

I frowned. I didn’t know what to do about this, if anything. What
could
I do, for that matter?

“You ever see his schlong?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Did you ever see that thing?”

I nodded, quickly adding, “At a urinal,” in case she might get another idea.

She sighed heavily and shook her head. “Hey, I’m not a virgin, Mr. Cooper. I’ve had ’em in me, plenty. And … if you say anything to him, he’ll probably tell you he always gives me a nice present afterward. Which doesn’t make me a hooker. I’m not that, goddamnit. If he just wasn’t so fuckin’
big!
Or if he’d just take it a little easy. And he … he’s
connected,
isn’t he? He’s—well, he’s one of those guys. Isn’t he?”

I had a dumb idea. “Tell you what,” I said to Filly. “When you see him next, tell him you’re my girl and I don’t like it when you do it with anybody else.”

She grinned. “Mr. Cooperrrr…” she purred.

The painting contractor never appeared. I had dinner with Filly, then took her to my room in the Rittenhouse.

When she was naked and I dropped my underpants, she reached for my cock and squeezed it lightly, gently. “Now there,” she said, “is a schlong a girl could learn to love!”

I ran my fingertips over her boobs. They were big, but not awkwardly big; firm, yet soft. They seemed to welcome my hands, and when I squeezed them she arched her back and chuckled. She had a great bush of pubic hair that had never been trimmed, and when I ran a finger through it and into her moist, slippery crevice she grabbed my hand and led me to her clit. It was engorged. I mean, Filly had an
erection,
about like what I had.

“I want you to fuck me out of my mind,” she said. “And I’m going to give it to you like you never had before.”

Giselle and Melissa were by no means the only women I’d ever had, but generally I stayed faithful to the women who satisfied me. I had no formal obligation to Melissa. We were not married and had never talked about marrying. I cherished her, but I did not love her.

Before that night in the Rittenhouse Hotel was over, I had fantasies of settling a nice piece of money on Melissa and moving Filly into a new apartment in Manhattan.

I could smooth some of her rough edges … me, a rough-edged guy if ever there was one smoothing off a girl! But I could march her around New York, my twenty-two-year-old chick with the perfect, youthful face and the luscious body, dressed in style the way I could dress her. Hell, I was sixty years old that year. I could put aside my forty-year-old mistress and take a twenty-two-year-old.

Or maybe I could keep both of them! How about that? Melissa and Filly, both! It was the dumbest idea I ever had, but that was how much I wanted this girl. I thought of myself as a sort of worldly guy, who knew his way around. Filly needed no great skill to make a fool of me.

39

I had no great difficulty in getting Sal off Filly. To him, she was just another piece of ass. He could have cared less.

“Kiddo. When a cunt takes money, that makes her a whore. I was dropping a couple hundred on her every time. Not bangles and beads—cash.”

“She claims you hurt her. And you know why, and how. She says her doctor told her you—”

“She never said any such thing to me. I’ve had gals say that. She never did.”

I didn’t know which of them to believe. I had never entirely trusted Sal. To tell the truth, I wasn’t even sure he had really fired the shot that killed Jimmy Hoffa. At that point I was ready to believe the girl, and I forgot what Sal had said.

“Tell you something else,” he said. “Some guy called me. Name of Spencer. He told me the broad was bad news. I told him to mind his own fuckin’ business. What was I gonna do, be intimidated by a piece of tail? Anyway, I figured the guy had something in mind, so I brushed him off.”

I guess I had a little smarts. I did not move Filly to New York to take Melissa’s place. I set her up in an apartment on the Jersey side of the Walt Whitman Bridge, and I made reasons to go down there often. In fact, when I was on my way to Washington or Baltimore I would pick her up and take her with me. I’d have the pilot land, take Filly on board, and we’d take off again.

When Len married Sue Ellen, Melissa sat in the church beside me, as if she was my wife. She went to the receptions and parties with me, as if she was my wife. Modestly and appropriately dressed for the occasion, she made a favorable impression even on the partners from Hale & Dorr. I know it surprised Sue Ellen’s father to see how the woman with me was not a model from a Cheeks store—though I wish he could have known!—but a well spoken, dignified woman. I might have wished it were Giselle there beside me, but I could be proud of Melissa, and I was.

Even so … Filly was waiting in a motel room near the airport, and the day after the wedding and reception I sent Melissa back to New York on the Metroliner and flew Filly to Martha’s Vineyard. So much for respectability.

There was on the Vineyard—and still is, for all I know—what was called a “free beach,” meaning clothing optional. I had a camera with me, and I took the best photograph I’ve ever taken in my life. It was of Filly standing at the edge of the water on a foggy morning when there was no surf. The water is visible behind her but quickly vanishes in the fog so the background is grayish white, even though it is a color photograph. She was wearing only a pair of cutoff blue jeans that hung across her hips and left her navel exposed. Her bare breasts rested on her arms that were folded over her stomach. She had raised her chin and was staring with half a frown at something out of sight to the camera—maybe another photographer behind me.

I had a magnificent color print made from that slide and had it framed. It hangs in my apartment to this day.

I took Filly with me when I went out to Pittsburgh and Cleveland. Giselle and I had had a heavy curtain installed behind the front seats of the Beech so we could have some privacy back in the passenger seats. In a Lear jet you don’t need that curtain; the passenger compartment is separated from the cockpit by a wall. Anyone who has ever flown in a bizjet, though, knows you can’t really screw, not comfortably—unless you reconfigure the passenger space for the purpose. In fact, we did it on the floor. That was some great sex, too, on that hard floor. The plane was almost always moving, up and down, side to side, or both—which added to the fun.

Well, there’s something else a girl can do for a guy. Giselle did. It’s said that Frenchwomen have an instinct for giving head. I don’t know if Giselle had an instinct or not. I only know it was entirely natural to her, something she expected to do and did without hesitation. Melissa did it, too, though for her it was a concession. She didn’t like it, especially not on her knees, which she thought was demeaning, though that was by far the best way to do it in an airplane. Filly…? I don’t think she could have faked the enthusiasm she brought to sucking cock. She loved it! She’d lick my balls for ten minutes before she ever moved her tongue up my shaft—until I was ready to beg her. Then she licked my shaft, all of it, especially the tip. Suck? It was only when she sensed that I was about to come that she took me inside her mouth and licked and sucked and swallowed.