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  "I made it, of course."

  "You made it"

  The cop unwrapped the shoe. Biasca didn't even have to touch it

  "It belongs to my friend Genco Volpone," he said.

  As if jolted by an electric shock, the two cops ex changed an unbelieving look. "What was that name you said?"

  "Volpone! Genco Volpone," Biasca answered con descendingly.

  "Are you sure of that, Mr. Biasca?'

  ‘I’ve been making his shoes for almost ten years," Biasca bragged. "This pair was delivered to him less than three months ago. If you'd like to see his feet. . ." The professional in him hesitated to reveal his secrets.

  "His feet, you say?"

  "Yes, the molds of his feet are in my workshop." "Thanks, Mr. Biasca. We may be back in an hour or so."

  They were already leaving with their package, nearly shoving each other as they rushed through the door. Why the hurry? Biasca wondered. How did the cops get hold of one of Genco's shoes?

  Suddenly excited, he strode toward his office, slammed— the door shut behind him, and dashed to the telephone.

  When the second hand of his watch was at the figure seven, Homer Kloppe's index finger pressed an electronic remote-control box in his pocket and the service-entrance door swung open. That was where, every morning at eight-thirty sharp, the personnel of the Zurich Trade Bank came in. Within Swiss memory, never had a single bank in the Confederation been robbed. Where could the robbers have gone? Where could they have hidden when the whole population would have immediately pitched in to help the police? And, even assuming they had been able to crack the safe, how could they ever get out of the country? It was just plain impossible.

  As the armor-plate door closed behind her, Inez hesi tated briefly so that the banker might get the full benefit of her noble stature, impressive in a black floor-length mink coat Dazzled, Homer looked up, caught Inez's icy stare, and stepped back to let her pass. He pushed the door shut and again pressed the remote control, instantly closing off all the exits. Then, with stiff little dignified steps, like a mechanical turtle trying to keep up with a supple gazelle, he followed her down the long corridor. He couldn't say what he most admired about her—her slender figure or the graceful neck that sprang from her shoulders like the stem of a flower.

  They continued their silent walk, going down the stair way that led to the vaults below. Kloppe, walking behind her, was hard put to keep himself from touching Inez. Had he dared, he would have asked her to raise the flaps of her coat and skirt so that he could take in the swivel of her hips and feast his eyes on her long thighs. They finally reached the last door. With trembling hands Homer fin gered his remote-control gadget, spelling out the code that would temporarily disconnect all alarm systems.

  They were inside the strong room, a rectangular area twenty-two yards long by nine yards wide, where custo mers requiring isolation could come and meditate. The ceiling, floor, and walls were all made of steel strong enough to withstand an atomic explosion. Inez's perfume invaded the space around them, something warm and living clashing with the deathly cold of the metal.

  "Make my bed!" she ordered.

  Homer Kloppe took two more keys out of his pocket and went to safe-deposit box 829, his own private deposi t box. Motionless as a statue, Inez watched him, haughty, majestic, inwardly amused by the. way she turned him on.

  "Dollars?" the banker mumbled. "Dollars, marks, Swiss francs, and a few ingots!" she commanded dryly.

  "Would you please take your coat off?" "I will when I feel like it"

  Homer turned his back to her, dug into the box, and withdrew handfuls of bundled currency. He threw the bun dles to the floor and Inez tapped at them with her toes.

  "More!"

  Awkwardly he removed some ingots, and one of them, slipped out of his arms. He immediately apologized in a tone of abject culpability, but she merely shrugged, ogling him like a lizard contemplating an ant Bundles of bills swam on the floor. Homer got down on his knees to release the individual bills, and Inez carelessly kicked them into a heap that Homer Kloppe smoothed out until they began to form something resembling a pallet on the floor. When this layer of money reached a depth of about eight inches, Inez extended her legs, and Homer, who was kneeling, slipped to the floor. She deigned to smile.

  "What does it smell like?"

  "You might come down and smell it with me," he mumbled.

  "Not yet Take your clothes off." 'Right away?"

  She stepped a few paces away.

  "Look, I’m going to show you something."

  She dropped down on her back, raised her skirt up high, and lifted her legs in a V—infinitely long, infinitely perfect legs, part of which were still encased in the boots.

  Kloppe felt his throat go dry and could barely get out in a hoarse whisper, "Inez—"

  "Strip!" she said harshly.

  Homer raised himself halfway on his pile of bills and started to unzip his fly. He always wore iron-gray suits, black tie and shoes, and a white shirt .The only incon gruous note was his underpants. They were bright red with white polka dots, even though their style, going from his hips to his knees, was quite conventional.

  Take them off!" Inez said’

  He suddenly saw the meaning of this scene: a sort of Black Mass, God in this case being Money, and his own action representing its defilement.. Ever since he had started seeing Inez—the Devil incarnate!—the same erotic ritual kept taking place. Now, lying on his mattress of dol lars in the strong room of his very own bank, under the eye of this fabulous black woman, her legs spread and pointing to the ceiling, he realized that it was he himself who had suggested it, had made it happen.

  "Don't move, little white man!" Inez instructed.

  In his turn, he slightly spread his thighs. She started to crawl toward his legs, her lips outstretched, her fore arms swimming through the money, some of which softly rubbed against her face.

  The lobby of the Excelsior Hotel in Nassau was like a village square on market day. Fat mommas in purple shorts and halters, rolls of cellulite on display, laughed uproariously as they stood at the bar, nursing steins of dark beer or gulping them down like men. Their escorts wore T-shirts decorated with gaudy palm trees.

  Mortimer O'Brion, sweating profusely, fought his way through the crowd. He had to raise his voice to get the attention of one of the desk clerks.

  "Erwin Kelly, Suite 879."

  Before he could say another word, the clerk had checked his mailbox and was facing him again, holding a piece of paper.

  "Your key isn't here, sir. Mrs. Kelly is upstairs in the suite. But there's a message for you."

  Mortimer put it into his pocket without reading it His heart skipped a beat He went over toward the eleva tors and then looked to see if anyone was watching. When he got out on the eighth floor, he took a few steps, saw that there was no one around, and took out the folded paper he had been holding in his pocket It was addressed to Erwin Kelly, Hotel Excelsior, Nassau, Bahamas. When he unfolded it he found it had been sent from London, and it had a brief message: please call back, judith.

  He sighed, made a face, and went toward a stand-up ashtray in the corner. He set the message afire in the ash tray, waited for it to burn, then crushed the ashes with his fingertips. He wiped his face with the back of his coat sleeve, put down his briefcase, tightened the knot of his tie under his soaking shirt collar, and headed for 879 where Zaza was waiting for him. If he had had the slight est hesitation, mere was no turning back now. The mes sage cut the test bridge to his past, and, depending on what kind of luck he had, he would shortly either be dead or he would be rich beyond belief. From now on everything had to work on a split-second schedule.

  He couldn't phone from the suite, so he decided he'd call from the airport, just before takeoff. With the time difference, it would be around four o'clock in Zurich. He knocked softly on the door of 879, fervently hoping that Zaza was ready and waiting with her luggage.

  Italo ("Babe") Volpone impatiently
shoved away the naked girl who was soaping his back under the shower. He dried his hands on a terry-cloth robe, reached for the lighted cigar on the edge of the sink, took a drag on it, and spoke into the phone, "Now, say that again!"

  Angela, his young bride, was on the other end, calling from New York. He was mad about her, and insanely jealous. When he had to be away from her for a couple of days, he would drive her crazy with phone calls, just to hear her voice.

  The mobster mentality divided women into - two groups: mothers and cunts. Mothers were mythical, sacred, endowed with every virtue, and in turn consoling and pro tecting. Objects of the deepest respect among men, who had little respect for anything or anyone else, mothers called forth what little tenderness they knew in childhood. And wives became consecrated mothers as soon as their first baby was born. Then there were the cunts—all other women—to be used and abused, ticked off like numbers on a list and cast aside like filmy animals if they asked for anything in return for the moment's ecstasy they gave.

  Then Babe Volpone met Angela, in a place where .he had never before set foot, a public library. It must be said in his defense that he was there quite by accident. Not to look for a book, but only to escape from two creeps who been tailing him all over London. He was standing behind the front door, his heart beating wildly, his hand gripping the gun in his pants pockets, when a soft, serious voice inquired, "Can I help you?"

  He jumped. But the second he turned around, he knew she was It The earth might crumble, he might be shot at sunrise, but nothing would be able to undermine his light ning certainty that this woman existed only for him, that they were meant to belong to each other. Their eyes locked, and, sensing the rare and final quality of that moment, An gela had asked with a quaint awkwardness, "What type of book are you looking for?"

  She had never met. a man like him: athletic and elegant with a wildness that emanated from him like a scent Dazzling her with his smile, he quipped, "Do you have anything that tells you how to shake two jerks who are on your tail?"

  "this is an academic library, sir."

  "Does it have a rear exit?"

  She led him to it, and as he stepped out he grasped her . hand.

  "If you're free this evening, how about having dinner with me? I’ll tell you all about it"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  '’I’ll pick you up at eight, okay?"

  Fifty-eight days later, in New York, Italo Volpone married her, without giving her time to finish the disser tation for her doctorate in English philology. It took her several hours to explain to him what her research was all about but even now, after six months of marriage, she didn't understand what business her husband was in.

  Whenever she pressed the point he made a wry face. "It’s a family business. I work with my brother Genco. We do odd jobs. We sell fruit vegetables..."

  But the money he so lavishly spent and their expen sive apartment on Park Avenue had left her wide-eyed.

  "Angela, cara mia, say that again, won't you?" he now asked her.

  There was no trouble with the connection from the U.S. to Nassau. When he was sure he had heard what she said, he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, his muscular gut shaking, his index finger mechanically rubbing an old scar from a stray bullet in Puerto Rico that had given him a second bellybutton on the right side of his gut.

  But Angela was insistent "You must listen to me, Italo! They said it was very serious and urgent!"

  "Are you kidding? You really think I'm going to call the cops?" The idea seemed so wild to him that he began to laugh once more. "Did they explain to you why I should call them?"

  "No, they wouldn't tell me another word. They just said you should call them immediately at headquarters."

  Once again Italo burst out laughing. Babe Volpone, calling up those uniformed hoosiers!’

  "Did you tell them where I was?"

  "No, of course not I told them I had no idea."

  The waiting broad pushed the door ajar and smiled meaningfully at him as she cupped her two breasts on the palms of her hands. Wherever he went the men of his family made sure there was a welcoming committee with plenty of tits and ass, jestingly referred to as "sleeping pills." Italo was always so driven that these sleeping pills were indispensable to his health. Of course, he never felt in any way unfaithful to Angela when he spent a few hours with one of those pigs.

  "Angela, I assure you, I have to get dressed now. I have an important business meeting."

  With his free thumb he twirled the wheel of his mini-roulette, set the ball in motion, and mentally bet on the nine.

  "Italo, please, please! You have to call them. I saw them. They meant business."

  "You saw them?" he choked out

  "Yes, they came here. How can a phone call hurt?"

  "You mean you let them in? To my house?"

  "Babe, what else could I do?"

  After making several false stops, the roulette ball finally landed on the thirty-one.

  "Fuck!" he muttered, more to himself than' to her. "Okay, I’ll get in touch with them. I’ll call you back."

  He hung up sharply, rinsed off, got into his robe, took a puff on his cigar and swallowed a gulp of scotch, and picked up the phone again, dialing the operator.

  "This is Room 1003. Get me New York. Midtown Precinct North."

  Then he went back into the bedroom. The girl, ly ing on her belly, looked sulkily at him. Absentmindedly, he took a vicious swipe at her fanny, then with sudden de light saw that his hand had left a mark that was turning red.

  'That hurts!" she gurgled.

  "What's your name?"

  ‘You're too mean! I won't tell you."

  ‘What the fuck do you think I care?" he said as he poured himself another shot of whiskey. "Come on, bitch, do your stuff. Take care of me."

  She turned over on her back.

  "How about taking care of me first?"

  The phone rang. She took the glass from his hand and sipped at it

  ‘Midtown Precinct North?—I don't know who I want. You're the ones who asked my wife to have me get in touch." He flinched a little. "Italo Volpone—Yes—I’ll wait."

  He grabbed the broad's hand and closed it around his cock. Then he took her by the back of the neck and pushed her head down until her mouth took him in.

  "Yes-—Volpone, that's right—What?—Why?'

  Suddenly his face was tense, all the muscles of his body contracted.

  "What's that you're saying?" he stammered.

  He listened for another half a minute. At the change in his tone, the girl pulled back and looked up: his lips had tightened into a hard white line. He kicked her away.

  "Get the fuck out of here!" he hissed without looking at her, his hand over the phone.

  She stood on her dignity. "You got no right to talk to me like that!"

  He slapped her brutally. Nonplussed, she looked at him, gray eyes filling with tears. Italo took a roll of bills out of the night-table drawer and hurled them at her.

  ‘Beat it!" he repeated. 'I’ll give you twenty seconds!"

  She bent over to pick up the money, and for a flash, as he looked at what she was showing him in that position,

  He was sorry he couldn't make use of her. He said into the phone, I’m coming in on the next plane," and hung up. Then, to her: ‘I’ve got to clean up in the bathroom. Better not be here when I come out"

  As soon as he had gone, she counted the money, rubbed her sore cheek, and smiled appreciatively. At those prices, she wouldn't mind if he slugged her even harder! Three minutes later, she was gone.

  Italo called his bodyguards, instructing one to have a car ready for him in front of the hotel while the other booked seats on the first plane leaving for New York.

  After that he phoned New York again and instructed his lawyer to meet him at Midtown Precinct North. Final ly, he ordered his secretary to find Mortimer O'Brion im mediately and make sure he met him at the airport

  Even though he was at the top of
the heap, all-pow erful and untouchable, Babe still had some of the charac teristics of a small-time hood. He knew that some of the highest police officials were on the pad, yet the mere sight of a traffic cop. gave him the willies, just as it had when he was fourteen. He was so nervous he tore his shoelace as he tried to tie it and he thought fearfully of what the fuckin’ fuzz told him they had found—without telling him where or how. He knew his big brother was capable of doing just about anything—but not lose his shoes, for chrissakes!

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