Chapter 3
"Waddaya think, Al?" Rocco asks Alphonse, as they scan the crowd, still applauding after Destiny's act.
"I uh, I never watch the girls no more, t'tell ya the truth, Rock.
"I got the wife, the kids.
"I make a nice living here.
"I got the boat down the marina, my house may not be no palace, but it ain't no fuckin' trailer either, so what do I want with some fuckin' young cunt, 'specially one waves it around for a huncha drunks an' losers?"
"Just axin' ya about that partic'lar one, Al.
"No need fer no fuckin' speech."
"I know what choo was axin', Rock.
"The hell ya think I hadda go over it for?"
They grin.
"Hadda lcxik at cher cards one more time, huh?"
"Damn straight.
"I ain't dead yet, y'know.
"Once't in a while, one of 'em up there'll get through t'me.
"Ain't happened in a while, but it still happens, knock wood."
And he does, on the table, through the oilcloth of red and white checks, reminiscent of a pizzeria.
""Ey, nice ta know there's still lead in the pencil, that's Psure," Rocco concedes.
Then, "How old ja think she is, Al?"
"Hell, I dunno, Rock. Din't take that close a look at 'er face, y'know?"
"Take a guess, see how close ya come."
"Uh, okay.
"I'll say, I'll say ... twenny-five, maybe."
"Wouldja b'lieve, Al-check this out, I kid joo not-eighteen."
"No!"
"Read my lips, Al; eight fucking teen years old, that is."
"Then uh, all I can say is, that ain't gonna last, Rock.
"Too much of it t'stay in place much longer. "I mean, I thought, you know, she was like just gettin' there, reachin' her peak an' such."
"She is, she is!
"So I'd say this is definitely a case of gettin' it while the gettin's good, wouldn't choo?"
"Speakin' for myself or for the bachelor next ta me, Rock?"
"You we arready know about, Al.
"You just reread me the fuckin' pledge of allegiance, remembuh?
"Talkin' about a well-built, single, early thirties type such as myself."
"Who has yet ta date one of these picchiacs workin' here."
"Who has yet ta see one worth stickin' my fuckin' salami into, 'til now," Rocco qualifies.
"Yeah, well, check wit' Tony before y'make a move on that."
""Ey, y'think the boss is innarested?"
"He ain't dead yet, Rock.
"From what I seen, he does better'n you."
"Hey, I go for quality, not quantity."
"Yeah, well, this Destiny broad's got it all, so uh, just watch y'self, is all I'm sayin' here, y'know?"
"So I'll axe 'im first, is all.
"What could he say-no?"
"He could say no," Alphonse replies, nodding.
"So if he does, then it's no.
"No means fuckin' no."
"It also means no fuckin'."
"No fuckin' her, y'mean.
"Waddaya think, she's the on'y fish inna fuckin' sea?
"For Tony, she just might be."
And Alphonse sips from his glass.
And Rocco punches him in the shoulder, laughing, making the water spill onto his sportshirt.
"Yer bustin' my fuckin' chops, right, Al? Am I right?
"Yer so fuckin' jealous 'cause I'm single you can't fuckin' see straight!
"I'm goin' for it, y'fuckin' mamone, so eat cher fuckin' heart out!"
"Just axe first, is all I'm sayin, Rock."
"I'll axe first, Al; I'll axe her though, not him.
"I always axe the broads.
"I ain't found a husband yet'd go along with the program, y'know?"
"Yeah, right, Rock. The married woman's friend, that's you, all the way.
"Only thing, Tony ain't 'er husband, he's 'er boss."
"Meanin'?"
"Waddaya think, Rock?
"Think the outfits diff rent from any other corpo-ration?
"We got our politics too, y'know.
"Just wit' us, the backstabbin' becomes a little more literal, is all."
"Hey, hey, hey!" Rocco says, backing away in mock terror. Then, with an Irish accent, "Threats is it now, y'd be threat'nin' me with is it, me boyo?"
"Keep clownin' around, that's what cha want, Rock, but I'm tellin' ya, you can't be the only one sees somethin' special lookin' at Destiny.
"Anyways, here come more'n you can handle, anyway."
"Oh no!" Rocco moans, covering his face with a hand, turning away.
"Like she don' know where ta find ya, right?" Alphonse says, as Conchita comes sidling up to them, breasts, high and round and firm covered by a leather vest, open at the front, Argentine gaucho hat on her head, gauzy pantaloons over her g-string.
"Hey, beeg boy!" Conchita says, placing her arms around Rocco's neck from the rear, putting her cheek against his ear. "Joo change joor mine jet?"
"Listen, uh, Conchita-will ya f crissakes leggo of me?
"I'm workin', arright?"
"Bot all work an' no play meks Yack de dull boy, swee'heart!"
"When I see Jack, I'll tell 'im, okay? "Meanwhile, couldja just, just-cool it?
"Go find a customer, see how many drinks y'kin get 'im ta buy ya, like yer s'posed ta, okay?
"An' stop pawin' me; people're lookin'."
"Nex' joo gonna be tellin' me joo don' date de help, ri'?"
"Haven't yet, have I?"
"No' jet, thass true.
"Bot ees abou' to change, no?"
"No fuckin' comment."
"Aha! I wass rl', then!
"Joo gonna hab a date weeth Destiny!
"Joo gonna go fo' de beeg estoff een a beeg way, no?"
"You got a big fuckin' mouth, Conchita, you know that?"
"The bedder to sock joo weeth, my dear!
"Wha' joo thin', Al? Could I sock hees cock good, or what?"
And Conchita opens her mouth, purses her lips, and makes sounds like a monkey, inhaling and exhaling rapidly and loudly, to the amusement of nearby drinkers, who chuckle and grin.
And, in response to Rocco's glare, shake their heads and divert their attention to their mugs and glasses.
"I don't hafta take this fuckin' harassment," Rocco says, scraping his chair back. "Watch the fuckin' store, Al; I'm goin' fer some fuckin' air-away from the stink of cheap perfume."
Casting a contemptuous glance at Conchita and heading for the front door, like a customer leaving the place.
Conchita looks after him, fists on hips, laughing, before approaching a customer at the bar, saying, "Hey swee'heart, joo wanna buy a leddy a dreenk or two or t'ree?"
Fucking Conchita, Rocco thinks, inhaling the sticky, humid night air. She's not hot for his body, she's just busting, is all.
Seeing him there, night after night, as bored as she herself is, she's merely passing the time.
She doesn't understand that the bouncer thing is just a front, that he and Al are more important to the organization than they appear.
She isn't talking to some ex-jock, down on his luck, or some gym instructor looking to pick up some money with a second job.
She doesn't know about the valises of money, the trips to banks, the deposits and transfers, above all the trust the organization reposes in Al and himself.
And Rocco smiles.
If she did, she'd probably make a joke out of that as well.
Big deal, so he's a laundryman as well as a bouncer.
How about a little less starch in the fifties next time, and like that.
But it's no joke, what he does.
It's dangerous, especially in this part of Florida.
Where he has to worry about threats from all sides, his own not excluded.
Where several so-called mafias are at work.
The Mexican.
The Colombian.
Even the so-called Black Mafia.
If only his own were as well organized, as powerful as people thought, he would be a lot more secure, his job much safer.
But, unfortunately, the power is not that great, the organization not that tightly knit.
And, for the most part, not all that close, either.
A thousand miles north. More, even.
That's where the power base, the muscle lies.
Fat lot of good it does him.
Big with the orders, the demands, they are, up there, from up there.
Up there is where they like to be.
The supreme threat, with which Rocco is constantly faced for one reason or another?
"'Hey, Tony, I gotta come down there myself, or what?"
No, the last thing in the world they want or need, any of them, is for people to have to come down here.
Even casual visitors are courteously but not all that well received.
Changes in the wind. Politics. The occasional outright betrayal of each other, within the organization or to the cops.
All, all prompt visitors.
Visitors mean, ca mean change.
And change is not good.
Change is always something somebody up there thinks is good, but it isn't, not in ways that they down here can see, can appreciate.
Change.
Meaning that somebody up there has a better idea.
And the better ideas are the ones that kill you, the ones that can get you killed.
Because there are no geniuses up there.
Lotta wise guys, meaning street smart, meaning tough, determined, imaginative even, in rare cases, but no big brains, not really.
So that, at any time, big, big chunks of the outfit can soften, crumble, fall apart because somebody forgot to think of this when they thought of that.
And they never know down here.
Always, always, they have to call back and check.
Did you okay this? Did you approve, were you aware of that?
You check, they resent you.
You don't check, you're wrong again, they think you're an ass hole.
A no-win situation, this."
Still, it has its advantages, its good points.
The weather.
Okay, so they had two bad days last year.
The only ones who spent a worse Christmas Eve and Christmas than Florida were Manuel Noriega and the Romanian guy who got his brains splattered as a Christmas present to his grateful nation.
Joy to the world, and like that.
But better two cold days than two cold weeks or months.
And Rocco has known as many as five in Jersey, which often seemed to have only two seasons-summer and winter.
And of course there was less playing messenger boy down here than up there, less chauffeuring, less bodyguarding, less of all the bullshit that comes of trying to govern within a government, using and enforcing laws in direct contravention to this latter.
Destiny comes from Jersey, Rocco knows.
Tony mentioned it, when he introduced them.
And did not elaborate.
What if she was-no.
Private stock would not be available for public viewing, not like this.
Girl want to sing, wants to dance in a regular night club, hey, that's one thing.
A start in show biz, an up, a good connection, nothing wrong with that.
But you don't put your personal sweetie-pie on display like this, not in a place like this.
No, if Destiny is down here from there, she made it on her own.
And the decision to work for a place like this was, had to be, hers and hers alone.
A shame, in a way.
With a bod like that, Rocco thinks, she could of, she could of-what?
She could of attracted some fucking loser, who would have married her and kept her broke, barefoot and pregnant, is what.
What she has is rarely an advantage in the real world, or this has been Rocco's experience and perception, to date.
More likely, it serves as a magnet to attract all the wrongos.
And at least, Rocco thinks, at least she has escaped that particular pitfall.
So far, he appends.
The opera isn't over 'til the fat lady sings, and Destiny's life is still in the overture stage.
Eighteen and with a body like that!
It won't last, of course, but then, nothing in this world lasts.
So that Rocco lives life as a series of nows.
Which makes it all the more imperative for him that he act at once, or at least as soon as possible, on this Destiny situation.
Tony or no Tony, he adds.
Fucking Al just wanted to give him agita, is what.
Wanted to bust his chops because Rocco has what Al doesn't.
A chance.
A shot at some prime young nookie.
And Rocco shakes his head, looking down, thinking that it wasn't all that long ago he would have considered Conchita prime, would have been only too happy for her to give him a tumble, and to tumble her, in turn, in the hay.
She's got all the right stuff, for sure.
A little too blatant with it, a bit too eager to show it off, perhaps, but still, the equipment is there, no question.
It's there, and it's his if he wants it.
No more of this picking up stuff on the beach, bored housewives and such.
Going with somebody who actually knows him.
Meaning knows who he is, knows his real name, where he works, stuff like that.
A real person fucking a real person.
As opposed to an image seeking and finding a symbol, a momentary and partial occupant of that image.
He walks along the beach, enjoying the sun and surf and sand, shirtless, white clamdiggers clinging to his muscular legs, the sun bronzing his skin, right down through the hair on his brawny chest, right around the gold chains at his throat.
His wavy, thick, black hair glistens in the sun, above his sunglasses, aviator style.
And she sees him.
Not some pale, balding piece of flab like her husband, the father of her children, in school, thank heavens, so that she does not have to think about them for a few hours, anyway.
Here is a man of both leisure and substance.
This one doesn't have to punch a fucking time clock, doesn't have to labor under a supervisor in a closed and unnatural hierarchy.
No, this one is wealthy, independent, strong and handsome.
And alone, an elemental figure, an archetype, the male lover, an amalgam of the blue sky, the brilliant sun, the sparkling sand, the pounding ocean.
Yes, he is earth, air, fire and water, come to life, made warm, glistening, muscular flesh.
As though she had willed him, had summoned him, had in essence created him from her mind.
The very elements have granted her wish.
And Rocco?
He looks and sees-urge. Desire.
The concatenation of those feelings, be they whatever, from sexual frustration to a minor irritation of the wall of the uterus, from a mental to a purely physical itch yearning to be satisfied, capable of being satisfied in only one way.
And yes, he knows only too well the image he presents to her.
Which is a lie.
But it is a lie she has told herself, a tale she has woven about his perceived image. Nice legs, she has.
Nice set of jugs, good hips, not too much face, perhaps, but then, who does, squinting in the sun while trying to smile encouragingly?
Yes, yes, hello and hello.
And yes, it really is a beautiful day, the kind of day that makes a person want to live life to the fullest and we all know how you go about doing that, do we not?
And shall we and why not and like that and away we go.
And welcome to the Sleazo by the Sea Motel, rooms by the day, week or hour.
And yes, he actually eats her pussy, which her husband will not, has not in years.
On the other hand, she has gotten herself cleaner in the shower than she would for Fatso, so there's no reason why he shouldn't.
And in fact, yes, she will return the compliment, will experience his reality by rimming him, by actually raising that magnficent cock of his by pushing his inner rear buttons with her tongue.
As she helps herself to handfuls of his firm, protruding buns.
And now, he takes her, takes her as she, with eyes closed (Odd how they always do that, he thinks, since they cannot seem to get enough of his image immediately before.), issues moans which she would not dare at home, even if inspired, because the children might hear and not understand.
Or worse yet, hear and absolutely understand.
But here, it's okay, okay to moan, okay even to cry out her pleasure.
Just as it's okay for him to take his time, to make it last, to speed up or slow down, taking her on a sexual roller coaster, through the amusement park of her own passion and of the image which can best service, best satisfy it.
As now, the both of them advance steadily, inexorably up and up and up the ladder of their shared arousal.
As they ascend level after level, the satisfaction of each generating the hunger for the next.
And yes, desire will give way to ecstasy.
And yes, ecstasy will find itself melting into rapture.
And yes, rapture will yield to sheer sexual transport, as he takes her away, her and himself, to some never-never land of raw, tingling sensual delight.
As he plows her, his strong, steady, powerful strokes the piston action of the engine which drives her, drives them both, higher and higher.
And she knows and she remembers her first time, but with this body, with these thrills.
And she knows and remembers her youth, her beauty, her freedom, now restored to her by this rescuing angel made flesh.
And she is running away with him, running onward and upward through green fields dotted with daisies, running through forests and leaping over babbling streams, cutting through sunbeams filtered through high oaks over a forest floor of velvety moss in her bare feet.
And he is beside her, dancing with her in a naked ballet of utmost sensuousness, both of them graceful, their leaps perfect, weightless arcs.
And the very air itself is charged with their arousal, tingling around them like endless invisible champagne bubbles.
This, all this, he does for her.
Once.
Because now is the time of climax. Now is the time of leaving this glorious place for even greater heights. And so they do.
As the pleasure beyond pleasure explodes within them, a silent nuclear blast in the far inner distance.
Which spreads like an elaborate giant blossom, unfolding its petals in slow motion.
Like the mushroom cloud of that nuclear blast in smoothly blended, stop motion photography.
Until they are no longer free to move, are no longer in control in their minds.
Because the ultimate pleasure has seized them both in its almighty grasp.
They do not have it; it has them.
So that, as the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure reaches their capacity to contain it, it keeps right on going.
And they blow their safety valves.
And now, they are coming and coming, her series of multiple orgasms gratuitously milking his mighty marauder of its vital essence.
Spurt and spasm, spurt and spasm, they alternate, as they zoom and soar through the rosy empyrean of their private sexual paradise.
Until, at last, their climax subsides, then ceases altogether.
And they float gently back down to earth, to this earth, to present reality. And she opens her eyes.
And yes he knows that was terrific and you were great too and sure, why not hose down and go for another round and besides there's something he wants to do for her.
Because after all, she has -rimmed him and turnabout is fair play.
So they wash off meticulously and he returns the compliment.
But he keeps going back there, keeps right on trucking and no, she's never done this before but then nobody ever offered and there's a first time for everything and she's heard a lot about it and no he's no expert but he believes he can pull it off and if he's hurting her just say so and he'll stop but he isn't because he has taken the time to properly stretch and lubricate her so everything will be okay and he knows it.
And he cautions her not to tense up but she is already loose as a goose, physically and mentally after that first terrific fuck so of course this puts her right back on the rainbow path.
So that now he is fucking her in the ass, having first -rimmed her, tongue-wise, having then reamed her, finger-wise, so that yes he has no difficulty at all in ramming her, cock-wise.
And he propels her onward and upward once again, pumping her up the rainbow as his cock slides in and out of her rectum and he weighs her hefty jugs one at a time while holding onto her wide hips with his other hand.
And he fingerfucks her as they both come, her hot, clear pussy juices flowing over knuckles and wrist, even as he fills her bowels with his load, then rides her all the way down and she shits him out in a while and they call it a day.