Chapter 9

Tim announced himself, then listened. It was evident to Phyllis that he was talking to Lem Weldon. After a bit, he said, "I wish to hell you could make it. They're sending Emilio, you say? Yes, I know of him. Sounds like the first team. Well, I'd rather deal with the top than the scum underneath ... Okay, Lem, you stay on it ... Sure, we'll sit tight. So long and good luck. I have a hunch we need it,"

He hung up, looked at the window thoughtfully for long moments before Phyllis claimed his attention by the simple device of giving his balls a gentle squeeze. In return, he squeezed her left nipple, then said, "We've got company coming-a representative of the Mafia, no less. He should be here in less than an hour. So let's get ourselves fixed up."

"No, not that way, darling!" This last as Phyllis tried to pin him to the mattress and mount him. "Damn it, Phyl, this is serious."

"And you think this isn't?" She made a grab for his prick, but he pushed her hands away and held her wrists.

"Of course-we're just great together. But they're sending an authentic Mafia don to make an offer. So let's save it till later. It'll keep."

'No it won't-not mine," she told him.

"Then we'll just have to make do with whatever is left-after we listen to the man."

"Why can't Lem handle it?" she asked.

"Because he's up to his eyeballs in another aspect of the problem," Tim replied. "Besides, they want a look at you for some reason. Lem says it's okay."

"Oh, well then." She pouted and again wondered what was happening to her to make her act at such wide variance in behavior from the Phyllis West Barrett she had known and been for so many years.

A thought that had been lodged elusively in the far corners of her mind suddenly came front and center. She said, "Darling, there's something more to this, isn't there? Something you haven't told me."

"That's right," he admitted.

"For God's sake, what is it?"

He shook his square-chinned head. Then he said, "It isn't time yet. If we're wrong-and the odds are that we are wrong, there's simply no point in getting you as confused as we are. If we're right, then you'll know soon enough."

His tone sobered her. She looked long into his eyes which met hers evenly, then told him, "I don't believe you. I don't believe you and Lem are confused at all. You know something-and it's not just a matter of negotiating with the Mafia over Sal Carini's insane will."

"Old Sal was not insane-far from it," he replied. "There had to be a reason-a damned good reason-for that will. And that's the crux of the whole problem, honey, take it or leave it."

"Since I'm so directly involved, I can hardly leave it," she said. "But what valid reason could there be for his leaving all those millions to me? He didn't know me-so how did he expect me to hold final power in a racketeering organization?"

"Think hard, honey," he told her. "Maybe it will come to you. In the meantime, let's get the hell into a shower." He hoisted her to her feet with him, turned her around, headed her toward her bathroom with a smart slap on the fanny. "Separate showers," he added. "You know perfectly well what will happen if we take it together."

She stuck out her tongue at him and he thumbed his nose at her from the door in retaliation.

Emilio Colucci, Mafia don, was a complete surprise to Phyllis. He was tall, at least an inch over six feet, beautifully dressed with a slight tinge of Mod fashion in both his quietly frilled shirt and butterfly tie and in the low-forehead sweep of his dark brown hair. Tim and Phyllis received him downstairs in a small secluded drawing room just off the bar, where they were assured both privacy and service, if they wished it, by Walden Pines manager, the courtly and portly Mr. Addams with two D's.

When the introductions were concluded and a drink courteously turned down by their visitor, he stated his purpose forthrightly.

"Despite General Weldon's assurance that Mrs. Barrett is as unacquainted with us as we are with her, we wish to meet her for ourselves. I have been delegated to fulfill that function." He paused, smiled to reveal perfect white teeth, added, "And I must admit I find the mission an entirely delightful one."

Tim threw a covert look of absolute loathing at the newcomer that made Phyllis's spirits soar. She dimpled at Emilico Colucci and said, "I must confess you're not at all what I expected."

"Oh," he replied offhandedly, "we come in all shapes and sizes. All I really wish to ask you was whether, in the course of your marriage to Prescott Barrett, you ever heard him mention our Godfather, Salvatore Carini."

Their visitor sighed, shook his handsome head in defeat, when Phyllis said, "Until I happened, quite by chance, to hear of his death the other night, I'm afraid I never even knew Sal Carini existed."

Colucci's dark eyes flashed with anger and frustration. He said, "But in that case, it's as if he picked your name, blindfolded, from a telephone book. It simply doesn't make sense. And I can assure you that Mr. Carini didn't achieve what he did and maintain his position so long by the exercise of none-sense."

Tim spoke for the first time since the conversation began. He said to Colucci, "I don't suppose you know or knew anything that could have led to the murder of Gerry Mann."

Colucci shook his head. "His death was as much a surprise to us as it was to you. One of my cousins, a girl, remembers having dinner once at his restaurant in Kitteridge. She says the food and service were excellent. And that's all."

"Poor Gerry!" said Phyllis, recalling all too visibly the contact with his body as it fell slowly from the minivan in her driveway.

"You knew him, of course?" Colucci asked.

She nodded. "But not intimately."

"I understand. We have checked him out," Colucci said dryly. "I also understand, from General Weldon, that it was he who told you of Mr. Carini's death."

"That's quite true," she admitted.

"I also understand that he seemed very excited about it."

Phyllis said, "Not at that time. He was very excited about it when he spoke to me in the restaurant the following afternoon and made the appointment to see me that evening."

"In what way was he excited?" Colucci asked.

"I don't know. He was-well, all uptight about it. He acted as if he had something terribly important to tell me. Of course, by then, he had heard of the inheritance, which was more than I had. I must have seemed like an absolute idiot at the time."

Colucci regarded her steadily in silence for a full half minute. Then he turned to Tim and said, "Mr. Buckley, what's your opinion?"

Tim said, "On the face of it, the whole business is insane. But we're both damn sure it isn't, of course."

"Have you any theory about it?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded and said, "There's only one trouble with my theory. On the face of it, it's impossible."

Colucci sighed again, said, "That's about what General Weldon told me. He wasn't ready to talk, either." He paused, then added, "I wish you'd let us in on it even if it does seem impossible. When every possible avenue is closed, the impossible offers the only answer. Besides, we might be of help."

"I'm sorry," Tim said, "but setting off a hue and cry at this stage of our investigation would do more harm than good. Don't worry, Colucci, if we find we need your help, you'll be the first to know."

The emissary rose to his feet, as did Tim, and said, "I suppose I'll have to be satisfied with that."

"It's all we can tell you," Tim replied. "Believe me, we want this problem resolved as rapidly as possible, if only for Mrs. Barrett's sake."

Colucci made a move to turn away, then hesitated and said, "I understand how General Weldon became involved, but I don't quite understand how you fit into the picture."

"Lem called me in from Denver," said Tim. "He seemed to think Mrs. Barrett needed more protection than he could give her."

"Commendable." The handsome emissary nodded. "But isn't it rather like cracking a walnut with a drill press?"

Tim said, "Goodbye, Mr. Colucci."

"Em-please." The marvelously white teeth flashed again. Then, to Phyllis, "And what do you think of your protector's theory?"

She said, "If I knew what it was, I'd tell you. Unfortunately or otherwise, they have yet to confide it to me."

He was gone. Phyllis said, "What a dream-boat!"

"Don't let his manners fool you," said Tim. "Emilio Colucci has more unsolved slayings to his credit than Jack the Ripper. Come on, Phyl, let's have a drink and then dinner. You haven't had any food all day and..." A pause and a half smile that was more sweetly suggestive than a leer " ... we've both had a lot of exercise."

Phyllis suddenly realized that she was ravenously hungry as Tim led her to the dining room of the inn. She loved the food, which was based on early American recipes, from cream of chicken soup through a baron of beef wheeled to the table in a special cart and carved right there, accompanied by a potato souffle and creamed spinach topped with 'Sconset cheese from Nantucket and put under the broiler, to a deep dish blackberry pie accompanied by a hard sauce heavily laced with Medford rum. By way of beverages, she was treated to a dry, light hard cider that tasted innocuous but packed a devastating wallop, followed by brandy with the after-dessert coffee.

The room itself, like the competent, unobtrusive service, was conducive to relaxation and comfort-oak paneled halfway up the walls, girded above with mural papers that showed scenes of the countryside of eighteenth century Massachusetts that created a real feeling of out-of-doors space. The lighting was soft and indirect, the chairs and banquest upholstered in warm yellow leather.

Whatever the cost, Phyllis decided as she cut into the tender scarlet of the beef, being at the Walden Pines was worth it. Poor Gerry Mann's Iron Kettle fare, excellent though it was, seemed pallid in comparison. Yet, despite her relaxed condition, unexplained factors in recent events-kept crowding into her mind from time to time.

There was something about the way Mr. Colucci had wheeled on her at the last moment and asked what her theory of the case was that reminded her of courtroom tactics and she said as much to Tim.

"Smart girl." He regarded her with approval over a fork well laden with spinach and cheese. "It's the Parthian shot technique-leave a point apparently as is, then fire a final arrow in an unexpected direction, hoping to catch somebody off guard."

"Where did he learn that if his record is as clean as you suggested?"

"Probably," said Tim, "in Harvard Law. Our friend went through the three-year course in two-and came out with near-top honors."

"Since when have Mafia mobsters been going to law school?" Phyllis asked.

"Since they made their big money during Prohibition and went more or less legitimate after Repeal, they've gone in for all sorts of items. Take Emilio, for example."

"That might not be too hard," she replied.

"Oh, shut your face." Tim regarded her thoughtfully. "He has been trained, from his early teens, to administrate Interocean. He also has a degree from the Wharton School of Business Administration at the University of Pennsylvania. It was one of Old Sal's pet projects, training the brightest kid in the family to do the job."

"Then why did he leave it to me?" she asked.

"That," said Tim, "is one of the many sixty-four thousand-dollar questions mucking up this affair. Sal's original will made sense. His final testament doesn't. But there's no doubt as to its authenticity." A pause, then, "If you're up a tree over it, think of Emilio's position."

She shrugged, said, "I'd rather not. But there's something else-what did he mean when he compared your being on this business to cracking a walnut with a drill press?"

"Oh..." For the first time since she had met him, Tim Buckley looked ill at ease. If it were possible, Phyllis would have considered him actually flustered.

"Come on-tell mommy," she insisted.

"There's nothing much to tell," he replied, fiddling with his potato souffle. "I've been a little lucky in some of my cases."

"You must have been more than just lucky," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "If Lem Weldon called you in from Denver and Emilio Colucci referred to you as he did, you must be pretty important."

His gaze, for once, actually fell away from hers. He said, "On the contrary, it's you who are important, darling. After all, I'm charged with protecting that beautiful face and body, both of which, I wish to add, I find infinitely precious."

He was ducking the issue, of course. But, if he didn't wish to talk about himself, she had no intention of pressing him. She would find it out anyway from Lem Weldon when she saw him again. Sudden pride in her new lover made her drop her own eyes to the delicious food on her plate.

They ate in silence until the headwaiter, clad in buff livery with gilt buttons, came up to them and said, "There's a call for you, sir. If you'd like to take it here..."

Phyllis saw that he was carrying a telephone which, at Tim's nod, he plugged into a jack low on the wall. Tim picked up the handset, said, "Buckley here ... Oh, it's you, Colonel."

He held his voice so low that, even though the room was quiet and she was seated beside him in the banquet, she could hardly hear what her lover said. Actually, he said very little until, just before he hung up, he said, "Oho, so that's how they worked it-through the other side. No wonder we've had such a rough time tracing him ... Sorry, but I'm on a job right here ... Yes, it's part of the pattern." There was a long wait, then he said, "Well, if it's absolutely necessary. But I have to get back here as soon as I've seen the film."

He hung up, looked at her with troubled eyes, told her, "Wouldn't you know something would foul up an assignment that is such a positive pleasure as this one? All I planned to do tonight was go upstairs and to bed with you, darling. Now they've bitched that up. I've got to go back into Boston to look at some film. I'll be back just as soon as I can."

"Can't I come with you?" she asked.

His headshake was firm. "Sorry, Phyl, believe it or not, this is very official business." He took her hand, added, "I want you to go upstairs and lock yourself in the room. Watch TV, read, go to sleep, anything-but stay there until I get back which will be as quickly as possible."

"You don't give me much choice, lover," She was still reeling emotionally under the impact of his description of her as a "job right here..." And so she was only "part of a pattern."

"Bear up, honey." He kissed her and somehow she kept her lips cool against his. She felt very much alone and very frightened as she watched him stride from a room that was no longer restful or pleasant. She knew her neuroemotional-physical fatigue was betraying her into silliness, but she couldn't help having to fight an all but overwhelming impulse to burst into tears.

Nor did saying the name Gloria Steinem ten times give her much help. At the moment, Phyllis felt like a very, very un-liberated woman...

Somehow she made it upstairs and to her room without coming apart at the seams. Once she got there, and had kicked off her shoes, she felt better. Tim was an important man-he had to be-and a girl who became involved with an important man had to play second fiddle to his larger affairs at times.

She remembered a sad song from a very old film-some girl, was it Virginia Bruce?-singing I'm in Love with the Honorable Mr. So-and-So ... She wondered again, just who and what Tim Buckley was, aside from being the most marvelous lover she had ever shared a bed with...

She took off her clothes, turned on the TV and settled in the room's armchair. Regarding her nakedness with some satisfaction, she thought, It may be a long wait, but I might as well be ready for him when he comes, when he comes, when he comes, when he comes...

She felt drowsy and exceedingly sensual. Tim, Tim, Tim, she thought as her hands strayed to the bush of her pubic hair and beyond, burrowing with busy fingers into her cleft splaying on either side of her button and rubbing it gently along both sides.

As a thrill went through her, causing her to shudder deliciously, Phyllis wondered if, now that she was turned on again, she would ever turn off. "I hope not-oh, I hope not," she whispered as she peaked again, visualizing Tim embracing her, driving into her with the irresistible skill and stamina of his all but inexhaustible cock. If he was not as long as Pres in this department, his thickness more than made up for it-and his extraordinary skill in its use.

Even more important was the fact that Tim was very much in and of her life, while Pres was long, long gone. Letting her hand lie idle upon her pubes, Phyllis considered other differences between her two most important men. Pres had been marvelous, of course, but underlying his sensuality, she could now understand, lay the urge to conquer, to subdue. It was as if his desire to give a woman pleasure stemmed only from the fact that it increased his own. In his violence, she had more than once felt an urge to rape or to simulate rape, which was much the same thing.

At the time, loving Pres, she had enjoyed being an object of conquest. But now, with Tim, she found herself not a victim, not even a victim in jest, but a full partner in the most delightful of concerns-not a going, but a coming concern, she told herself, smiling at the cornball play on words.

The TV annoyed her and she leaned forward and turned it off. It was interfering with her fantasies. She decided to go to bed and wait for Tim there, open and ready for him whenever he returned. She continued to masturbate, and sudden recollection of her first sight of her lover, engaged in the same mild diversion, caused her to giggle softly to herself.

Slowly, in her sweet frustration, Phyllis drifted off to sleep-to be roused by the soft insistence of the telephone on the table by her right ear. Hoping that it was Tim calling to tell her he was on his way back, she picked it up and uttered a sleepy hello.

There was no answer but the click of the other handset and the drone of the dial tone. Thinking of the similar call of the .night before, the call that had been a prelude to the near miss of the explosive bullet when she leaned out the window, Phyllis sat upright, shocked entirely awake, hugging her nudity tightly against the chill of a room grown suddenly cold.