GI, JOHN SPERMSII, Fabrizio Pastalini and two others, all in business suits, marched into the lounge where Futsy was still reclining on the couch, puffing his cigar. The five men stood in front of the Mafia boss and showed off their ensemble. They had the sort of belt that was traditionally never worn with a business suit: one that supported magazines for pistols, a dagger and electric prods. The Mafiosi were fully equipped with discreet but powerful 9mm automatic pistols that were tucked into a hip-hugging holster, secreted beneath their suit jackets. Futsy glanced at them and chuckled.

“Remember, it was agreed between both parties that no one should carry a gun, right?” said Futsy.

“Sure, we know that… we are deeply aware… in fact, we’re clean,” John said.

“This is for our own protection,” said Fabrizio.

GI lit a cigarette. Futsy stood and walked over to one corner of the room and returned with his briefcase and then opened it. It was full of bundled cash. He closed it again, satisfied.

“Well gentlemen, be gentlemen and do it clean. Our reputation is very important,” Futsy said, handing the briefcase to GI. “Lusco Jay will be there with four others.”

“Vee are immer jenntelmen… and how about dehr Justice… Jim Hoos… he fukked op, nicht whar?” said GI.

“Never mind, he’s found peace at last,” said Futsy, sinking to the couch, laughing again.

“Gut, vere off,” said GI, signaling to the others.

The five left and got into a Chrysler Grand Voyager. GI sat behind the steering wheel, and Fabrizio Pastalini joined him in the passenger seat. He passed the briefcase to Fabrizio, who put it between his legs.

John Spermsii and the other two got into the back. They drove through town and arrived at a half-filled restaurant. They walked to the smoking section where Lusco J and his henchmen of four, who had arrived some five minutes before, were waiting.

Lusco Jay, early-40s, tall, well-built, African-American, stood up to welcome GI and his colleagues. His four muscular men extended their hands and greeted their counterparts.

Lusco Jay’s appearance was his trademark. He maintained cornrows and he always appeared fashionable – he often wore a black Valentino jacket over a fitted black turtleneck sweater, with black trousers. His chest was normally decorated with diamond-studded platinum pendants on thick 24-carat gold chains. Each of his four blond-haired companions had a ponytail.

The ten men sat round a large table. A waiter filled their glasses with wine and left as soon as the men raised their glasses. The meeting commenced. Five minutes later John Spermsii glanced at his watch, “Gentlemen, excuse me,” he said, pointing.

“Verr are you goeeng?” said GI, severely.

“I need to visit Tarzan,” John replied.

“But vee are een dehr mittel of dehr meeding,” GI objected, raising his voice.

“I know Gee Ai,” he said, “but I urgently need to use Tarzan.”

“Hey, hey. What are you guys up to? No bullshitting, right?” said Lusco Jay. “No bullshitting.”

“No, no… everything’s cool. I just need to visit Tarzan, that’s all. I really need to use the toilet, so please excuse me,” John said as he left the table and headed toward the men’s room.

GI watched, annoyed.

“Are you cool?” asked Lusco Jay.

“Yah. Kuul!” he replied, nodding.

The meeting continued. GI snapped his finger at Fabrizio Pastalini, who raised the briefcase that he had held with his left hand and hidden under the table since they’d sat down. He now placed the briefcase on the table in front of GI. Lusco Jay stared at it. GI glanced at his watch and then left unceremoniously. Fabrizio secured the briefcase beneath the table again.

GI walked over to the door of the Men’s room and opened it only to notice John Spermsii talking on a cell phone. John, facing the entrance, instantly started to sing Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you dear Mother, Happy Bir-r-r-rr-th…

“Vass dehr fuck you dink you ahr do-een-n-n-n-g?” GI asked angrily, and put his hand beneath his jacket.

“Today is my Mom’s birthday; I just remembered,” John said, lowering his hand with the cell phone.

“Venn wass dehr lass taim you talked about deine mutter?” asked GI. “Don’ fuck mit me, mann.”

“Fuck it, man. What you talking about? You don’t trust me, do you?” asked John, hanging up.

“Unsinn. I dunn fucking trust aney mutterfucker,” said GI, loudly.

“Excuse me! Can you rephrase what you just said?” said John.

“Redial der nummer,” GI ordered.

“What do you mean, redial the number?” John said.

“You don’ untershtand simpoll Americanisch Englisch, do you? Read mai leeps – redial-der-fucking taylayfoan-nummer, sofort! Or I vil use mai gun fur zign langwage raight now,” said GI, speaking the words slowly, one by one, as he removed his pistol. “Dunn mek mich do deez, Sperms.”

“OK, OK cool it… no need to go getting aggressive,” said John, pressing a button on the cell phone.

John redialed the number and handed the phone to GI, who put it to his ear, “Hello, John,” came the response in a female voice. GI did not say a word. The voice came again saying, “John, are you all right?”

Appearing convinced, GI handed the phone back to John and left to join the others. John hung up and followed.

Fabrizio Pastalini passed the briefcase over to GI, who opened it and revealed its contents to Lusco Jay and his men. GI closed it and handed it to Lusco Jay.

“Dass ist dehr cash,” said GI.

“Right,” said Lusco Jay, with a smile.

“Deelivery to dehr varehouse, nicht wahr?” ordered GI.

“We won’t fail,” said Lusco Jay. “We have a deal.”

The men emptied their glasses, shook hands and bussed each other on both cheeks. Lusco Jay and his men left first. GI and his colleagues waited for a few minutes and then rose to leave. There was no bill to settle.

The restaurant manager came over to them and handed an envelope to GI. “Vass do vee havv hier?” said GI, smiling.

“My protection money,” replied the manager.

Most flourishing businesses in the Marlone Mafia family network’s territory paid protection money.

“Goot,” said GI, as he and his colleagues made for the exit.

A few minutes later, a room service waiter left the bar holding a small tray with a bottle of Beaujolais and two glasses. He entered the elevator and pressed a button. A couple on the seventh floor waited for the same lift. The number seven lit up on the panel and the door opened. The waiter stepped out, balancing the tray in his right palm.

He walked along the corridor and paused at Room 707, knocking twice. Isabelle opened the door and let him in. The waiter placed the tray and its contents on a glass-table in the center of the room.

“Thank you,” Isabelle said. Once the waiter had left she removed most of her clothing. All that remained was a G-string.

A few minutes later there was another knock on the door. She opened it and J stood there beaming. Her naked, tantalising breasts left him paralysed. He stood there gazing, speechless, like a fashion designer’s dummy.

He didn’t notice Isabelle’s flawless skin, supple waist or long legs – his eyes remained glued to the cleavage.

“Entrez!” said Isabelle, gently pulling him into the room and locking the door behind him. She left him standing there gaping and walked over to the low glass table where the waiter had placed the tray. With her back turned to him, she bent down to open the wine bottle. J almost choked. She half-filled the glasses and turned to face him, holding the drinks in each hand.

“Cheers!” she said, handing him his wine.

They each took a sip. Isabelle gazed invitingly into his eyes. He smiled back and turned his glass bottom up. Isabelle took the empty glass from him and put it down, then walked back to him. She took a step forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then gently lifted his hands and placed them on her breasts. He cupped them in his palms and caressed the areola. Isabelle kissed him again. She removed his tie and shirt, then reached for his belt. Almost immediately, her warm, supple body engulfed the man. He put his arms around her, and they kissed hungrily. Isabelle reached down and placed her right hand inside his pants. Placing her left palm behind his head, she lowered his face toward her bosom. He kissed the top of her breasts and gently grazed her nipples with his tongue. The hand inside his pants began caressing his erection while her other hand stroked his spine. She could feel a slight vibration from his body. Her hand began vibrating as J’s body began trembling. She looked down and saw his legs wobbling as if he’d been plugged into a vibrator. His black trousers dropped to the floor. Isabelle quickly removed his remaining clothing and motioned him to the bed. He lay on his back and Isabelle put one leg over his body, positioning herself on his lower abdomen. She lowered herself over him so that her bosoms were over his face. She kissed him and then teased his lips with her nipples. His tongue caressed them; he tenderly touched her cleavage with his tongue and, encircling her body with both arms, he buried his face between her breasts.

A couple came out of Room 709, holding hands and kissing in the hallway. As they walked past Isabelle’s door, a sudden loud explosion occurred in Room 707. The magnitude of the blast swept them off their feet.

Other residents walking along the corridor were forced to their knees. Terrifying screams and cries for help filled the air. Frightened by the noise, people rushed from their rooms, confused. The scale following tremors from the blast created chaos in the entire hotel. The seventh floor, especially, was in complete turmoil. Casualties were flung helplessly about, alarms were blaring and residents were running every which way.

Staff members ushered guests to the various spots on the grounds where they felt they would be safe. In the maelstrom, children were crying and screaming. Debris from the blast sailed down into the pool, injuring a few swimmers.

The chaotic situation was a nightmare. Terrified people were running everywhere. A couple of minutes later, the DC police, fire service and ambulances arrived with sirens blasting.

The police sealed off the premises with yellow tapes. Cops ran behind and to one side of the five-star hotel, searching for the perpetrators as dark smoke billowed from the windows on the seventh floor. Broken glass was everywhere.

Dividing into groups of three, the cops began questioning the hotel guests and some of the staff.

Fire-fighters prepared their gear and rushed into the building carrying fire extinguishers. Other firemen prepared the water hose.

A police officer approached a paramedic and gave her instructions. She nodded and signaled to another team member. Quickly they removed first aid boxes from the ambulance and carried them, plus several stretchers, into the building.

The paramedics arrived at the hallway leading to Room 707 shortly after the fire-fighters. There were six people on the floor, crying out in pain, lying about helplessly, in shock. The ambulance team treated them and then put them onto the stretchers and carried them to the elevators and out of the building.

After inspecting their headgear and masks, the fire-fighters forced the door to Room 707 open. The intensity of the fire had decreased but still smoldered. They sprayed the extinguishers and put out the remaining flames. The fire-fighters took off their masks and looked at two grisly, charred bodies.

The upper portion of the victims had been shredded and blood and tissue was splattered along the wall. They glanced, put their hands over their mouths and noses in disgust. The bodies were burned beyond recognition. Smoke and steam still drifted upwards from the remains.

Four police officers arrived in the room. As soon as they saw the remains on the bed, they removed gloves from their pockets and put them on. One officer took photographs of the bodies and of the contents of the room, including the garments on the floor. The fire-fighters left and a police officer began to take notes. A third officer left the room and sealed the door with CRIME SCENE – KEEP OFF police yellow tape.

Meanwhile, as the police continued their interrogation, paramedics treated casualties. A white car pulled into the driveway in front of the hotel. Three men got out and flashed their badges at the policeman guarding the main entrance.

“FBI,” one of them said aloud.

A cop nodded him in. The three walked in, passed the reception desk and headed toward the bank of elevators. A few moments later news reporters arrived at the Flamboyant.

They parked their vans and quickly set up their cameras. They began filming the surrounding area, and some started transmitting. A few reporters began interviewing people. A camera crew walked to the entrance and requested permission to enter the building but the cops turned them away.

At the main reception, a senior police officer was being shown a CCTV recording on two screens. One screen showed residents being thrown to the floor in the hallway on the seventh floor; the second screen showed diners in the main restaurant.

Meanwhile, the police officers in Room 707 had begun their search. They inspected the garments and other articles they had found in the room. They searched Isabelle’s purse and J’s shirt and trousers. An officer took his wallet from his pant’s pocket and opened it as a camera snapped. The officer looked up at the photographer and noticed for the first time the three men who had just entered. One of them was holding a camera.

“It’s OK,” one of the three explained, “FBI.”

The FBI agents readied a second camera and took a few shots of the remains and the room.

The police officer removed identification cards from the victim’s wallet. He inspected them and passed them on to the FBI agents, then grabbed the woman’s purse again, searching it thoroughly. As he looked at a couple of business cards from the purse, the camera snapped again.

In the reception area the senior police officer was being shown the surveillance recording of the hotel before the blast when a call came for him on his Motorola. “We have a situation here,” an officer called from Room 707.

“That’s why we’re here, copy,” said the senior officer, suddenly alert.

“There are two bodies… a woman and a man appeared to have been blasted to death… both bodies completely shredded out of recognition. We found a business card from the woman’s purse bearing the name Isabelle England, Designer. And in a wallet from the male’s trousers, an identification card bears the name…” The officer paused, gazing at the card in shock.

“Listening,” yelled the senior officer into the Motorola.

“You’re not going to believe this,” came the voice on his Motorola.

“What?” yelled the senior officer in disbelief.

“You need to see this,” The officer at the crime scene yelled back into his Motorola.

“You’re driving me nuts,” the senior officer said aloud, looking devastated.

There was a long pause, and then the senior officer hung up. He stood there with his mouth half-open. Completely baffled. Utterly appalled. The staff members and other officers around him stared at him. He looked shattered.

The FBI agents in Room 707 were about to leave the scene when a cop ushered in a five-man team of forensic investigators. They began to share information. The FBI agents left the scene a few minutes after.

***

Futsy Marlone sat in his lounge at his Hagerstown residence. He sipped wine as he watched television. He glanced at his watch, picked up a remote and changed the channel on the set. He then picked up a cigar box from a side table, took out a cigar and, smelling it, he secured it in his mouth by almost burying his incisors in the cylinder. Futsy took out a lighter and carefully lit the cigar. He puffed a few times and then reclined on the couch, crossing his legs and gazing at the screen. As though on cue, he looked at his watch again and grinned when he heard, “This is Breaking News,” from the television. He immediately sat up straight.

On the screen, the C2N news presenter read:

“Another suicide-murder scenario has hit the District of Columbia this afternoon. It is reported that at least two people, a male and a female, have been blasted to death in a hotel room at the Flamboyant, a five-star hotel in Washington, D.C. The intensity of the explosion shredded the upper bodies of both victims beyond recognition. Six people who were walking in the corridor outside the room where the explosion was said to have occurred are still in shock.

“Investigators believe the female victim was a French designer. She was identified by the name Ms. Isabelle England. The male victim is believed to be Justice James Hughes, a U.S. Supreme Court Judge. Preliminary investigations have been concluded. These findings will later be confirmed.

“As you can see in the background, the bodies of the two victims are being carried in body bags from the hotel. The cause of the explosion and the motive behind the suicide-related bombing has not been determined. Two witnesses who occupied Room 709, next to the room where the blast occurred, are badly injured and suffering from shock. Investigators hope to extract further details from them after their recovery. Investigators believe…”

Futsy grinned in satisfaction and turned off the television set. He puffed rapidly; cigar smoke issued from his mouth and rose into the air, like steam from a locomotive. He put down the cigar and burst into thunderous laughter. He then grabbed a champagne bottle and celebrated the news. He took out another cigar and lit it.

Isabelle’s fingers gently touched the cloth over her erect nipples and her tongue slowly followed the curve of her lips. J kept his gaze on her breasts, his heart pumping and his muscles tightening. His breath increased until he sounded like a dog that had caught a glimpse of a bitch in heat. He picked up his water glass and raised it to cool his fevered brow. Isabelle caught sight of his wedding band and smiled. When he saw the expression on her face, he quickly dropped his hand, trying to hide it under the table.

“Anyway, eh-h-h,” he began, managing a smile.

“Don’t worry, wedding rings don’t bother me,” she assured him.

“Are you married, too?” he asked.

“Too?” she repeated.

“I’m sorry. Are you?” he asked again.

“I’m a free woman,” Isabelle replied. “No strings attached… as free as an electron.”

“I see.”

“First, I’ll put you on pause and then we’ll begin with a soft-core exercise to unwind you. We’ll then attempt hard-core, with some erotic positions – explicit and very intense. How does that sound?” Isabelle asked.

“So you’re staying in this hotel, right?” managed J.

“Room 707… I’ll be waiting for you.” Isabelle said, seductively. “Avec vue sur la mer. ”

“Avec vue sur la mer?”

“With an ocean view.”

“Ocean view?” he murmured.

“I will create it in your mind,” she explained.

“Right,” he nodded, still staring.

“Je pars demain,” she said. “Find that one out.”

She stood and opened her purse, took out some money and put it on the table. When she walked, every part of her body moved seductively. Je pars demain! Je pars demain! Je pars demain! The voice echoed in J’s mind as Isabelle left.

J relaxed for a minute, giving himself the opportunity to enjoy Isabelle’s lovely behind. His eyes were fixed on her bottom as it vibrated in an indescribably seductive manner. His body responded immediately. He felt like he was being tickled under both feet; his mouth became watery; his face seemed to have suddenly developed jowls. He loosened his tie and gulped the wine remaining in the bottom of his glass. Everyone in the restaurant was too busy watching Isabelle as she tapped her way out of the restaurant to notice J’s discomfort.

Isabelle stopped at the counter and placed an order for room service, then walked out. As soon as Isabelle disappeared from sight, J looked on his wristwatch. A waitress came to his table and presented two separate bills. He removed his wallet and took a credit card from it and gave it to the waitress. As the waitress checked the money Isabelle had left on the table, J asked in a low voice, “Do you have a little command over the French language?”

“Yes, the basics! We are required to learn French in hospitality management and services,” explained the  waitress.

“What does je pars demain mean?” he asked.

“Oh, we hear that every day. I remember from when I started the course on hospitality management in Miami,” she replied.

“Excuse me, but this is not intended to engage you in a conversation,” he said impatiently.

“Yes, I know. The mind sometimes likes to visit the good times, y’know?” she mused. “I miss Miami. Are you taking French lessons?”

“I haven’t got all day, young lady,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, please excuse me. I got carried away. Silly me,” she smiled at him, trying to improve his mood. “Je par demain means I’m leaving tomorrow,” she translated.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, right?” he repeated. The waitress nodded.

“Exactly,” she said as she turned to leave.

“Thanks,” muttered J as he placed a tip on the table.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING at 11:00, the main restaurant at the Flamboyant Hotel opened for lunch. The tables had been neatly laid with white linen tablecloths, heavy silver and fine crystal, and decorated with fresh flowers. The highly polished wooden floor shone as if no one had ever stepped foot on it. The waiters and waitresses wore white uniforms and gloves. The elegance and aroma of the restaurant made it seem like Shangri-la.

By noon all the tables but one was occupied. The only one remaining was in the right corner and it had a “RESERVED” sign on it. The waiters and waitresses were constantly moving from table to counter to table, taking orders and serving them. The restaurant was generally quiet, although there were occasional low murmurs and the noise from the tableware that was helping to reduce the masses of food on the diner’s plates.

Ten minutes later a stoutly built man, wearing a white shirt with a blue necktie and black trousers, came into the restaurant and headed straight for the reserved table in the corner. A waitress immediately appeared with a bottle of wine and a goblet; she opened the bottle and filled the glass with wine.

“Thanks,” smiled the man, taking a sip as she walked away.

Although rhythmic footsteps blended with the background noise in the main restaurant, the sudden tap-tap of pencil-sharp stiletto heels was heard by every ear and seen by every inquisitive eye. A few seconds later, a glamorous and statuesque woman entered the room.

Isabelle England carried a wallet-slim purse and wore a pair of sandals with four-inch heels. She was striking. She wore a soft dress made from shimmering material, with a plunging neckline that revealed the contour of her breasts – even her erect nipples. Her curvaceous body turned the pale pink Versace into an eye-popping halter dress.

With all eyes upon her, Ms England made her way between the tables. She took note of every person in the place – except the man in the right corner. He lifted his glass of wine to his lips but kept his gaze upon the woman in pink. Finally, Isabelle slowly turned his way and their eyes met. She made her way to his table. His eyes never left her prominent bust line.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked politely, smiling.

“Of course not,” he replied without hesitation.

For a moment Isabelle forgot where she was and almost used his lap for a chair but at the last minute she swerved her lovely derriere and positioned herself facing him. She placed her purse on her lap and allowed her body to relax. Her Versace followed suit, revealing her cleavage.

A waitress appeared and Isabelle asked for a glass of sparkling wine. As she turned to leave Isabelle said, “One moment, please,” and picked up the menu. Isabelle placed her order and the waitress left.

The man opposite Isabelle was uneasy. His eyes followed the round contours on her lovely breasts, as if he were trying to decide if she was wearing a bra. The waitress returned with the sparkling wine, opened the bottle and filled the glass. Isabelle took a sip, then looked at her new companion and smiled. Suddenly, he felt like he was choking; he reached up and loosened his tie. He cleared his throat and, for the first time since she’d sat down, looked at the woman’s face.

He tried to say something but he had temporarily lost his voice. He stared at Isabelle’s perfectly shaped eyebrows and at her eyelids, now grey with eye shadow, at her earlobes and her neck, both adorned with diamond-studded jewels. Everything about her enhanced her sex appeal; even her inviting lips possessed a magnetic attraction.

Isabelle’s fingers closed around the stem of the wineglass and raised it to eye level so she could see the escaping bubbles. She slowly sipped the wine as she stared back at her partner across the table.

“I’m J,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hi! I’m Isabelle. Isabelle England,” she used her most seductive voice, speaking softly and with a French accent.

“You’re beautiful,” J said.

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t seen you here before, Ms England,” said J.

“Please call me Isabelle,” she replied as she smiled at him. “This is my first time. I’m here for only two days and then I’m off to Paris.”

“Two days?”

“Yes. I’m on a business trip,” Isabelle explained. “I’m a designer from France.”

“What kind of designs, if I may ask?”

“Fashion. I’m a fashion designer,” Isabelle said.

J thought Isabelle was behaving in a frivolously amorous manner, considering they’d just met. Her body language aroused him and his own actions quickly responded to hers. Isabelle leaned forward slightly and the already plunging neckline of her Versace dropped even lower, giving J an erotic view of her breasts.

Unabashed, he stared.

Isabelle picked up her purse and spent time going through it. She chose a card and handed it to J, who took a moment to read the information on it.

“Oh, I see. So you live in Paris, huh?” he asked.

“Yep,” said Isabelle, smiling. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

“Nope,” said J.

“You should take a holiday there some time. It’s lovely.”

They were deep in conversation when the waitress interrupted them, carrying a tray bearing their food. They sat quietly while she served them.

“Enjoy your meal,” she said.

Isabelle placed her wineglass on the table and picked up a knife and fork as J pulled a bowl of soup toward him. Isabelle smiled at him and he returned her smile, displaying his large front teeth.

“Bon appetit!” said Isabelle.

“Sure… bon… right! Yes, thanks,” said J.

“Merci.”

“Mer-ssy,” J repeated.

“Merrrrrci,” Isabelle repeated slowly, pronouncing each syllable distinctly.

“Merrrrrrci,” J echoed.

“Merci,” said Isabelle.

“Mer-whatever-see,” he said.

They both laughed out loud. Isabelle looked at J and placed her knife and fork on the table. She glanced round the restaurant and noted that it was still busy.

“Now about you… what do you do, Mr. J?” she asked.

“Just call me J, please,”

“Ooo-K, J,” said Isabelle softly. “So, what do you do?”

“Always busy with brainstorming sessions,” he responded.

“Oh-oh, I see,” she nodded. “The same goes for the fashion world, too. Brainstorm to determine a potential market for new products and to stay competitive. That’s the backbone of every business, I guess. So we’re both in the business world… doing almost the same thing, huh?”

J looked as if he’d wanted to avoid the question but after hesitating briefly, he nodded yes.

Isabelle raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Y-y-yes, I guess so,” he said, sounding unsure.

“Tough and challenging job, that is… I bet it’s stressful,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” said J. “By the time you have been through one brainstorming session, you’re completely worn out. Burns all the energy right out of you.”

“Burns out all energy… you mean?” she repeated his words, making them sound like an invitation.

She touched her cleavage gently with her fingertips and began slowly rotating her lower body. Her circular movements caused her breasts to vibrate along some imaginary vertical axes that only J’s eyes seemed to be able to see. Looking at him seductively, she continued, “So you’re on your lunch break, huh?”

He nodded in the affirmative.

“Well, you can come up to my room, and I’ll give you a body massage. Your energy will bounce right back and you’ll feel great when you get back to your office. I’ll re-energise you so you’ll be brilliant during your next brainstorming session. Trust me.”

LADY B and Windy arrived at a Japanese restaurant at about 7 PM. A Japanese waitress wearing a kimono met them at the entrance and politely asked them to remove their shoes. A second waitress approached and led them to the reserved section where the Japanese acquaintances were waiting.

With their traditional formal way of greeting their friends, the Oriental visitors stood and bowed slightly to the Americans. Lady B and Windy returned the bow. The men wore Western suits and their partners were in daring but elegant gowns, the signature in modern fashion.

The architecture as well as the ambience was typically Japanese. There were many customers in the restaurant that evening. A few people were celebrating birthdays of family members; in a far corner a man was kneeling, holding a ring out to a young woman while families and friends looked on, smiling in approval. Japanese classical music provided a peaceful atmosphere.

“Nice to see you again,” said Lady B.

“Guud to shee you, too,” they responded, nodding.

“This is Windy,” Lady B introduced her friend.

“Konninchiwa,” said Windy, shaking hands with each of them and bowing slightly.

“Oh-oh, konninchiwa,” responded one of the visitors.

“Don’t even start. I know you’re a genius, but you aren’t that smart,” Lady B said to Windy in a low tone with a smile. “Don’t take your friskiness to the Far East, my dear.”

“Kidding. That’s the only word I know,” Windy replied, giggling.

“Anyway, this is Riku and his partner, Ai. Yuu and his partner, Miki,” Lady B introduced her friends.

Ai wore a pale yellow sleeveless lace dress with several tiers of ruffled ribbons. Miki’s ensemble was a golden bustier halter-top embellished with sequins, beads and a nude, mesh halter-neck worn with a body-hugging black sequined skirt.

“Pleese, less sit,” said Riku, smiling.

Windy looked down at the short-legged table. When she saw no chairs she rolled her eyes at Lady B, who ignored her.

Settling on the mat, Ai and Miki distributed their body weight over their knees, lower legs and toes. Windy and Lady B followed their example. Yuu and Riku assumed the lotus posture.

Two waitresses served them each a bowl of soup. Yuu picked up a spoon and smiled broadly. “Well, less havv somm chikin soap in balls,” he said, chuckling.

“Ha, chicken soup in bowls, not balls,” emphasised Lady B, laughing.

“Wicked!” whispered Windy.

“What’s wicked?” Lady B asked, glancing at her.

“The soup, of course,” Windy answered. “Why? You think I meant the mention of b-b-b-balls…?”

“Eh, eh, don’t you dare,” whispered Lady B, interrupting Windy.

“So how’s your trip been so far?” asked Lady B, turning to the visitors.

“Eet wollsint bad, ad-oll,” said Riku.

“Eet ees nott bed aht-ol,” said Ai, correcting her partner.

“We havv binn to so manay eentlessing places. We went to few stayes. Dis taim we took a lol’o fotos to show awa families. Eet ees sad today ees awa last day,” she continued.

“The important thing is that you’ve enjoyed your visit,” smiled Lady B.

“You molst comm and see Japan someday. We shall all havv you,” said Yuu.

“What!” exclaimed Windy.

“He meant they will provide accommodation, rude girl,” said Lady B. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

“I thought he was proposing a six-some,” said Windy.

“Shhhhh,” Lady B whispered, interrupting her.

They finished the soup, the table was cleared and they again looked at the menu. A few minutes later, a waitress – an American in a kimono – came to their table. Windy looked at Yuu and the others.

“Well, I hope you guys are not looking at the Japanese section,” said Windy. “I’m sure you didn’t travel all the way from Japan to eat Japanese food in America, did you?”

“Of course not,” said Lady B, smiling.

“Nah!” they all responded at once, looking up at the waitress.

“We laik Ameleeken foods,” said Miki.

“Yes, we do,” said Riku. “Honetly.”

“Onnessly,” said Yuu, grinning. He raised his shoulders and turned toward Riku with an I had an A in English so check my wings attitude.

“Don’t worry; this restaurant is one of the few that offers the best of the world’s dishes. The menu includes foods from A to Z, trust me,” said Lady B.

“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress, ready with a note pad and a pencil.

“Yes, I’m going Chinese tonight. Give me Chicken with Almonds and fried rice,” Lady B began.

“Chicken with Almonds and fried rice,” repeated the waitress as she scribbled.

“Care for a dessert?” asked the waitress.

“Red currant cheese cake for dessert, please.”

The waitress scribbled and looked at Riku. “Yes, sir?”

“Gong Greece… no Greeks. Ayam having Guwilose wit Chachikey, wit lice,” Riku said and loosened his tie. “Guwilose with Zig-zag-key… no sorry, Zah-zih-key wi’ lice, ha!”

“Gyros with Tzatziki with rice, right?” corrected the waitress, writing.

“Have you decided on a dessert yet?’ she asked Riku politely.

“Olanch girlly loll wit almound solce,” he said.

“Orange jelly roll with almond sauce,” said the waitress and moved on to the next person.

“Miss?” the waitress asked.

“Ai yamm goin for Moolletts bake wi’ shleems, wit lice, I fink eet ees Wess Afleeka happitite, huh?” Ai asked.

“Right, mullets baked with shrimp and rice,” said the waitress.

“Dessert, please?”

“Hmm, Rushian gusebelly cleem,” said Ai.

“Russian gooseberry cream,” repeated the waitress.

“Sir?” the waitress asked Yuu.

“Pleese, I wan lanteal soap wit flannk fucker and jelmann pasta,” ordered Yuu.

“Lentil soup with frankfurter and German pasta,” repeated the waitress, rolling her eyes and glancing at the ceiling. “Dessert?”

“Sachatol… ohhh I see,” he said, grinning, and trying to get the name right. “Selxer toltel.”

“Got it, Sachertorte,” repeated the waitress, after a few seconds as she jotted it down.

“Yes, Miss?” she moved on to the next person.

“Lamp teekkah maslaa fol me,” said Miki.

“Lamb tikka masala… and for dessert?”

“Mouse owl cholkolat.”

“Yeah right! Mouse,” giggled Windy.

“You’re such a naughty little girl,” whispered Lady B.

“Mousse au Chocolate,” said the waitress, smiling.

“And you, Miss,” asked the waitress, looking at Windy.

“We’re really representing all of the continents, huh?” Windy remarked, flipping through the menu.

“Miki has gone Indian and now she’s asking for mouse for dessert,” she continued in low tone, turning towards Lady B.

“And she had the nerve to call for an owl too… mouse and owl mix?” she laughed.

“Don’t be such an imp. Order your food,” whispered Lady B to Windy.

“Anyfeen long?” asked Yuu.

“Oh, Windy’s having difficulty deciding what she wants,” explained Lady B, smiling.

“Well let’s see what the Italians have got for me,” said Windy, staring at the menu.

“Venetian Lasagne, that’s it,” she said. “And sorbet with apricots for dessert, please.”

They ordered before-dinner cocktails. The waitress brought them shortly and they sat conversing and sipping their drinks. Within thirty minutes their food was served.

“Bon appetit!” said Lady B.

About half way through their meal, Windy turned to Miki.

“What’s your favorite dish?” Windy asked.

“Ai laik tolkey een olanch soap,” said Miki. “No! Een olanch sollse.”

“What about you?” Windy turned to Yuu and smiled.

“Dokk in tomato sollse wit noodels, you nol?” he said. “Havv you tlied one befole?”

“Duck… yes I like duck, too,” said Windy.

“Dokk meat,” emphasized Yuu, his beaming eyes nearly vanishing.

“What?” asked Windy. “You mean duck, right? Duck.”

“Dokk… yes. Woo-woo-woo,” he continued.

“Dog-g-g-g-g-g! You mean a D-O-G?” Windy asked.

Yuu nodded.

“No thanks,” said Windy. “I’d rather keep them as pets.”

“Do you havv wan aht home?” asked Yuu.

“Yes, an Alsatian. A very big one,” said Windy.

“Good, then next taim we shall comm visit you,” said Yuu, chuckling.

“Not in this life time,” said Windy. “Arigatou!”

“And what abolt you, youl best food?” asked Riku, turning to Windy.

“You’re not going to believe it,” said Windy, giggling.

“Ah-ah, careful… don’t even try it, honey,” said Lady B. “I’ve just started to enjoy my meal.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill your appetite,” said Windy, glancing at Lady B’s plate.

“Yes, what ees yoll best food, Weenny?” asked Riku.

“But what is your best dish?” asked Windy, throwing the question back at him.

“Eet ees timple… solly, chimple. Ai laik ceekin legs een pig blodd sollse. Wenn you choo demm eet ees laik cahlots. Ai fink dey ale guud fol vegetelians,” said Riku. “Een falt, dey mek the same noises een youl mouth laik callots.”

“Well, I like fried snails and spring chicken in maggot soup,” said Windy, with a broad smile. “The soup is kept cold to keep the maggots alive.”

“Damn, you’re nasty. How could you, in your right senses, come up with something like that?” asked Lady B. “You are ruining my appetite. I guess I’ll have to rush through the rest of my food before you say something else disgusting.”

“What’s left on your plate, anyway? You’ve almost finished your dinner, girl,” replied Windy.

“Wot ees spling chikin?” asked Ai politely.

“Oh my goodness!” said Lady B.

“Frog. A bullfrog and a chicken have a lot in common except that a frog has the ability to spring,” said Windy.

“Right, I think I need to use the toilet and force a few things out or I’m going to throw up,” said Lady B, leaving the table.

“Fly snakes and spling chikin in maggot sollse, huh?” said Riku.

“No, fried SNAIL-L-L-L-L-S,” said Windy.

“Ooh, snails… slimy, sweet, soft buddies,” said Riku in Japanese, grinning.

“Ah-h-h ha,” agreed Windy.

“Live maggots in cold maggot sauce, to be precise,” Windy continued, in Japanese.

“Are the maggots alive?” asked Yuu, also speaking in his native tongue.

“Sure,” said Windy, smiling. “That is what I meant by live maggots. I’m not kidding.”

“Good, then I will love to try that,” joked Yuu, in Japanese.

They finished their dinner and a waitress returned to clear the table while another waitress returned with dessert.

Lady B came back from the ladies room, and sat beside Windy, confused. It was as if she was completely at sea in the formerly friendly circle. Lady B was trying to catch Windy’s attention but her friend was totally engrossed in her conversation with their visitors, in Japanese.

“Where did you learn about these fried snails in maggot soup?” asked Miki.

“Do you want to give it a try?” asked Windy.

“I would love to. Can you give me the recipe, please?” said Miki.

“Who do you want to cook it for?” asked Yuu.

“For you, of course,” said Miki. “I thought you expressed an interest in that dish.”

“I was only joking… a matter of courtesy, you know?” explained Yuu.

“Well, I know you’re not joking. I can tell when you’re for real, so stop pretending,” said Miki.

“What kind of a girl are you?” Lady B asked Windy, in disbelief, at the end of their conversation. “I didn’t know you speak fluent Japanese, too. German, Spanish, French and Portuguese… and now Japanese… how did you get there? Too many frog legs with chilled monkey brains, huh?”

“Nope. Too much TV, perhaps,” said Windy.

“Ha’ah, she ees welly good, you nol?” laughed Yuu.

Windy tasted a few spoons of her dessert and glanced at her watch, then wiped her lips with a napkin, looked at the others and picked up her handbag.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Hope to see you another time. I really enjoyed dinner but I’ve got another journey ahead,” she said. “How long will you be in the States?”

“Fol tlee wick,” replied Riku.

“Fol flee weeks,” said Ai.

“Good. Perhaps we will meet again when I get back from Paris,” said Windy.

“No, no, today ees awa lass day,” said Miki. “Wee havv stay tlee… flee… f-f-f-tlee-e-e wicks ol-ledee.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. You said that before,” Windy smiled at them and shook hands all round, then placed one hand on Lady B’s shoulder and bent over and kissed her goodbye.

The two Japanese couples watched, still smiling. Lady B grinned.

“I’ll see you when I get back from Paris,” Windy said to Lady B.

“Safe trip, honey,” Lady B replied. “Be good.”

“Sayonara,” Windy waved her hand at the Japanese couples.

“Sayonara,” they echoed as Windy turned to leave.
***

Windy walked to the parking lot; got into her Toyota MR-2 and pulled out onto the street, then onto the freeway.

She soon arrived at an elegant five-star hotel, the Flamboyant. Before getting out of the car she took a moment to glance through some papers that were in her purse. She entered the hotel and walked to the registration desk.

Windy gave the papers to a male employee, who confirmed her booking and took a key from a drawer.

“All right, Ms. Isabelle England, here is your key. Your room number is 707. We wish you a pleasant stay.”

“Très bien, merci,” said Windy née Isabelle, and headed toward the elevators.

IT WAS TIME for The Pro to walk the last mile. All efforts to try to get him to accept a deal and to divulge information had been exhausted. Team members of both FBI and of M.P.D. were there to see him executed. They arrived in the viewing box minutes before The Pro was brought into the execution chamber.

The condemned man was told to wait at the glass door. After it was opened, he was led into the room and settled in the electric chair, then strapped in. A portable recorder was placed near him as some of the officers readied their pens and notebooks.

As The Pro was secured in the electric chair, the warden moved forward and faced the audience. Adept at speaking without moving his lips, the warden said, “To ensure maximum safety measures, we are using the electrocution chamber. It is bombproof and has been designed to contain any explosion that may occur within the walls of the chamber. As a further precautionary measure, should anyone decide to leave the execution room at any time the three exits on the left, right and at the back are unlocked. If you wish to stay, you do so at your own risk.”

Following the horrific execution of Slug Wiseman, the state of Maryland prison system had constructed new facilities, employing many additional safety measures. The electric chair was no longer as close to the audience and it had been especially designed to fit into a bombproof glass booth. The new execution room was more spacious. It had three large exits and was kept unlocked at all times. A fire truck, fire-fighters and a team of paramedics were stationed nearby.

The witnesses glanced at the doors, as if checking to ensure their safety. They looked behind them. All exits were clear. The warden nodded and turned to face the inmate. “By virtue of the gravity of your crimes…”

“Are you talking to me?” The Pro interrupted the warden.

“Obviously! Is someone else in the chair with you?” asked the warden.

“Bloody hell! Open your mouth, move your lips and speak bloody English, mate!” The Pro spoke with a cockney accent.

The warden appeared perplexed and looked at the inmate in disgust. He took a deep breath, trying to control his anger.

“By virtue of the gravity of your crimes…” the warden began again.

“Yer… yer… yer! You’ve been condemned to death by electrocution, blah blah blah…” The Pro mimicked the warden’s speech and the warden stopped speaking, in shock.

“Just shut up, will you? Who gives a fuck anyway?” continued The Pro.

The warden was so stunned that for a couple of seconds he remained speechless. Then he managed to step aside.

“Yes! I have something to say,” yelled the inmate.

Fear gripped everyone in the execution room and they turned and looked at each other. The witnesses all glanced in the direction of the exits. Everyone became alert, wondering if another blast were about to take place.

“Are you ready to take notes?” He moved his lower jaw as if he were exercising it.

“I am absolutely fucking knackered,” he continued. “Well, the FBI Chief Director, Mr. Sheen, Shine, Shane, Shinn, Shish, Mr. Sh-h-h…”

“Shane,” interjected Parker.

“Whatever!” said The Pro, glancing sideways at Parker.

“He’s a bloody wanker, a stupid bastard and a fucking pain in the bloody neck. Bloody idiot, innit? Egocentric maniac. He’s a dead man. Trust me. He’s next on the hit list, but somebody else will go before him. Watch out!”

Having said that, he cleared his throat. Parker and his fellow FBI agents were hoping for the long awaited promised information. The witnesses became very uncomfortable as The Pro began laughing.

The Pro waited a moment, staring at the FBI and M.P.D. officers.

The witnesses were silent and all eyes were on the inmate, who pushed himself forward as far as the strap around his abdomen and thighs would allow. He let out a belch and smiled, then farted loudly.

“Fucking good, innit?” he said.

He sat up straight, gazing at the witnesses.

Some of the male witnesses were already on the edge of their seats. Most of the women had their handbags in hand, prepared to dash to the nearest exit. The Pro’s behavior terrified them and many left before the execution began.

***

That evening, Futsy Marlone, GI and Fabrizio Pastalini were in the basement family room in Futsy’s mansion. Futsy picked up a cigar case and a lighter and GI grabbed a wine bottle from the bar. Futsy lit his cigar and sat on the couch. Fabrizio, with three wineglasses in his hands, sat down next to his boss. Futsy stopped GI when he began opening the bottle of wine.

“Not yet! Let’s see what’s on the news first,” the Mafia boss said, puffing away.

GI removed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. Fabrizio placed the three wineglasses on a side table near him and glanced at his watch.

“It’s two minutes past news time,” Fabrizio said as he picked up the remote. He pressed a button and the TV came to life.

The C2N newscaster was reading, “…late this afternoon the much talked about criminal lord, The Pro, was put to death by electrocution at Maryland’s Central Prison. The Pro, whose criminal profile would require hours to present, was arrested in Maryland with his murderous gangsters on the grounds of the General Assembly.

“The English-born thug ruled a mobocracy. Their reign of terror has left many scars in the lives of their victims. The FBI has intensified its hunt for his cohorts as well as members of other criminal families. They are therefore appealing to…”

“Who gives a shit?” Futsy turned to Fabrizio, “Turn that thing off and let’s have some wine.”

Fabrizio Pastalini switched off the set and distributed the wineglasses.

WITH ONLY FEW weeks left until the president’s inaugural ceremony, the FBI and the State Police had initiated orders to ensure maximum security. The Department of Justice had deemed the security measures appropriate to capture the country’s most wanted criminals. Vigilante groups had doubled and the police patrolled every street and kept watch on every alley. Washington, D.C. was like a police state. People were randomly picked up off the streets, searched and questioned.

Early one afternoon, T. Shane and a couple of FBI agents, along with M.P.D. officers, made their way to the Maryland Central Prison for a final visit to Number One.

The informant was taken to the interview room where the police and agents were waiting. Number One sat at the end of a table facing T. Shane. The other officers stood guard.

Number One asked for a cigarette. T. Shane took a pack from an inner pocket and offered the convict one, then lit it. Number One puffed a few times and gave a deep, contented sigh.

After a few introductory remarks, the inmate confirmed his past dealings with the Marlones and admitted that they had been rivals. He confirmed that Futsy intended to bring down the next president-elect. His information also linked Futsy with an organised crime family in Brazil shortly before his arrest. These developments plus other pieces of information the agents had gathered warranted the re-arrest of the Mafia boss, and the recommendation of a possible death sentence if Futsy was ever captured again.

“Is there anything else you wish to add?” T. Shane asked Number One.

“Futsy Marlone isn’t as sophisticated as Slug Wiseman and the disintegration of the Marlone Mafia family mortified his father. Big Dad. When he had to serve a prison term, Futsy somehow felt that this cast an aspersion on his own family. Futsy will do anything to restore and protect his father’s ego,” Number One explained.

The informant had served three years on death row. Having found his information reliable as well as useful, his death sentence was commuted to ninety-nine years imprisonment, giving him a total jail term of one hundred and two years.

T. Shane and the others returned to their Bethesda FBI field office for a scheduled meeting with Justice Hughes. A few minutes after T. Shane had entered his office, the judge was at the door.

“Boy, oh boy… another day, another scheme for the rats,” Justice James Hughes said, entering T. Shane’s office. He sat opposite the FBI director and placed his briefcase on the table in front of him. He opened it and took out a manila folder from which he withdrew four large photos.

“Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?” T. Shane offered, pointing to the coffee maker on a far table.

“Not now, thanks.” Justice Hughes placed the four photos on the table, and T. Shane looked at them.

“All right, you have my full attention,” T. Shane remarked, settling back in his chair.

“All four of these men are on death row, two in the US and two in Brazil,” said Justice Hughes, pointing to the photos. He picked them up and grouped them in two’s.

T. Shane leaned forward and stared at them. Justice Hughes gave the two photos in his left hand to the head agent, who put them down in front of him. He narrowed his eyes and studied them.

“Those two are Brazilians in American death cells, wanted in their own country for their alleged involvement in an abortive coup d’état that helped anarchy reign for forty-eight hours,” said Justice Hughes. “This happened nearly three years ago.”

“The coup failed and several members of the dissidents were apprehended and executed without trial. The Brazilian National Bureau of Investigation (BNBI) is now seeking these two for questioning. They plan to offer them a deal to help track and cripple their criminal organisation in Brazil. The government fears their operations are still active and could begin again at any time,” Justice Hughes continued.

He then placed the two photos in his right hand in front of the FBI director. He stood, put his hands in his pockets and paced the office while T. Shane studied the photos.

The judge cleared his throat and continued, “Those two maniacs are so-called American Mafia soldiers. They are hired for a maximum period of two years. They charge so much that no criminal family can afford to keep them for longer than that. They served two terms with the Marlone Mafia family, but not two consecutive terms.

“They are believed to have masterminded the aborted coup before they fell into the hands of the law. They are currently on death row in Brazil, and we are told they are prepared to give evidence and will testify against Futsy Marlone. The condition is that they are transferred to the U.S. and their death sentences commuted to life in prison.

“On the other hand, the two Brazilians in our death cells here have also agreed to cooperate with their government to help in the extinction of their criminal organisation in Brazil, with similar conditions. The BNBI strongly believes those two criminals have access to contact addresses of prominent supporters and members.”

“So where do we begin?” asked T. Shane.

“A U.S. delegation will have to meet with the BNBI. I have completed the basic formalities,” said the judge. “We need a five-man US delegation, which you will head. You need to choose two men from this office to accompany you.”

“And who are the other two?” T. Shane asked.

“The CIA will send two men,” said Justice Hughes. “I will keep you posted. There have been previous discussions over this issue. However, your meeting with the BNBI will supersede all former negotiations.” The judge glancing at his watch.

“Jim…” T. Shane began, then sighed deeply. The judge looked at him. The agent pointed to the corner again.

“Tea or coffee?”

“I’ll give you a call,” said the judge, shaking his head and closing his briefcase. He walked to the door. “I have a flight to catch.”

TANYA AND CHANTAL arrived at the Pall forty-five minutes later. The Pall, a well-known private exercise club in the suburbs, was packed with busy people. It housed indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a gymnasium, large halls for aerobic and martial art classes, indoor and outdoor basketball and tennis courts, facilities for wall climbing, bars, a confectionery, a delicatessen and other amenities.

Tanya and Chantal parked, got out of the convertible and walked past the swimming pool to the confectionery. They ordered two large chocolate milk shakes and carried them to the poolside, where they relaxed in lounge chairs. They glanced around and pulled at their bra straps, then put their hands under their breasts and lifted them.

“OK! Let’s go change, then,” Tanya replied, smiling. “Time to jump into those bikinis. Let’s show some butts and real tits.”

They went to the women’s locker, changed into bikinis and then returned to their poolside lounges. They dropped their towels and jumped into the pool. They swam to one corner for a more advantageous look. They quickly noted that only two women out of the entire group were alone – everyone else was with a partner. Tanya kept her gaze on one of the women.

Tanya began to pout and slowly put her handbag on the floor. These attention-seeking gestures didn’t go unnoticed. The two women settled themselves more comfortably on their lounge chairs and began scanning the swimming pool, checking it out while they sipped their milk shakes.

“It’s time to go fishing,” Chantal said.

“And what do you think about those fried eggs? Can she join the party?” Tanya asked.

“Gee, I don’t think so! I prefer boiled eggs cuz they’re solid,” said Chantal, chuckling. “Let me scan for a sec… I think she belongs to the male species. The only difference between her and some silly man is that she wears a bikini. She looks like a man trapped in a woman’s body.”

“So what’s the difference?” said Tanya.

“What about you?” Chantal asked, “What do you think of her?”

Tanya (L) and Chantal (R)

“Have you seen this other thing that I’m looking at?” Tanya whispered. “Check in that direction, m’girl.”

“Y-Y-Y-Yep, she’s cool. That’s exactly what we need, huh?” Chantal said, looking her over. “Let me see – medium-sized breasts and big stomach. No she’s too fucking fat. Damn!”

“And what else do you see?” Tanya noticed Chantal was looking in the opposite direction.

“Now, look straight ahead of you – do you see that one just settling down on the lounge chair next to ours?” Chantal whispered, looking straight ahead.

Tanya nodded and smiled.

“You mean the one in that cheap bikini that looks like it was designed by some 16th Century Versace?” asked Tanya.

Chantal nodded yes.

“She’s a brave one. And she has the nerve to spread her legs in our direction too, huh?” continued Tanya.

“What do you think of her?” asked Chantal.

“You tell me, Miss Scanner,” Tanya answered, smiling.

“Let’s see,” mused Chantal.

“Face?” Tanya asked.

“Excellent,” replied Chantal.

“Breasts?” Tanya asked.

“Cool!” said Chantal.

“Now legs… I mean the puckered inner thighs,” said Tanya.

“She’s got more dimples and bumps than a sheet of bubble wrap,” said Chantal.

“Cellulite! Not my kind of girl,” Tanya decided, giggling.

LADY B, a tall, slim blonde with flawless skin, was impeccably groomed. She exuded glamour and her charismatic personality could charm a cobra. Her melodious voice and quick wit added to her attractiveness.

Dr. London placed a stethoscope between her generously endowed bosoms.

“If the world held a contest to find the most beautiful breasts ever created, Lady B would win by a mile!” he thought.

Her breasts were full, firm and pointed outward, as if about to make an accusation. The doctor moved the stethoscope over Lady B’s left breast, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes averted so he could concentrate on her heartbeat. Her erect nipples captured his full attention and the doctor’s gaze remained glued at those rosy nipples, as if they were transmitting impulses to his optical nerves.

Although for years he had given Lady B her routine physical and he had always followed the same procedure, when it came time to examine her heart the doctor reacted like a medical student. He became confused and nervous, like a schoolboy. His eyes slid down to view her flat belly. Her gorgeous body was irresistible. Lady B gave the doctor a gentle, seductive smile.

“How are we doing, Doc?”

“Perfect,” Dr. London replied with English accent, speaking too quickly, as if the words were chili peppers and burned his tongue. “You’re in perfect condition. Remarkable!”

“Thanks,” said Lady B, grinning at him.

She picked up her gown, put it on and left the examining room. When she walked her firm breasts moved very little. One brief glance at her bosom and at her supple waist, which begged to be encircled by the doctor’s eager arms, had made men ejaculate in public.

As soon as Lady B left his office the doctor rushed to the bathroom and stayed there for a long time. When he finally returned to his office, he looked drained.

Lady B went up the stairs to her bedroom where Catherine, June, Jane and Eve were lounging, half-naked, on her kingsize bed. They had been fondling and kissing each other when she entered.

Mel, a slender girl, 9, sat in one corner of the bedroom. She was tall, with auburn hair and almond-shaped eyes, and she wore earphones. She was too engrossed in her video games to bother about the orgiastic noise in the background.

Lady B took off her gown, crept into bed and joined the orgy. The women moaned with satisfaction when they reached their climaxes. Within minutes they began their sex play all over again.

At the end of the steamy romp the exhausted women, with the exception of Lady B, slept. She pulled on a robe and left the bedroom. Mel turned off her video games, put the earphones aside and followed her.

Later, Lady B returned to her suite and took a shower. She emerged from her dressing room in a form-fitting gown and walked downstairs to the playroom where Tanya, Chantal and Windy were throwing darts.

Tanya and Chantal wore clothing with revealing tops while Windy and Lady B both wore elegant gowns. Lady B was in a beaded paisley-print, a long-sleeved number with a plunging neckline, meant to display her ample cleavage. She had a sweeping floor-length, sleeveless fur coat created from white Siberian tiger skins thrown over her shoulders. Windy wore a sleeveless, lilac, floor-length gown with a cowl neckline.

Tanya picked up a dart, positioned herself and took aim. Her eyes were fixed on the target. Chantal, Windy and Lady B watched.

“Is the bull’s-eye disappearing?” Windy joked.

“You’d make a perfect statuette, Tanya,” Lady B remarked.

“I guess a mini-Madame Tussaud’s coming to the States soon,” said Chantal.

“I’m trying to concentrate here, girls. I’m going for the bull’s-eye,” Tanya rolled her eyes.

“You’ve been in that position for the last half-hour,” Windy said.

“You look like a wax statue. Throw the dart, dummy!” said Chantal.

Tanya threw the dart but not anywhere near the dartboard. Its trajectory was at least ten inches to the left and Tanya watched, disappointed, as it hit the wall and fell to the floor. She sighed, disgusted, and rolled her eyes again. Lady B picked up a dart.

“Now let me show you how to pluck the fucking bull’s-eye,” Lady B said, throwing her dart.

“This game’s boring. We’re off to the Pall,’ said Chantal, grabbing her handbag.

“Have fun and be good to the other girls,” said Lady B.

“Cheeky bitches,” she added to herself.

“Sure we will,” Tanya replied, picking up her handbag,

“Especially to the flat chests.”

“Enjoy your dinner,” Chantal called. She stopped in front of Windy to adjust the cowl neck on her dress. She gently grabbed both sides of the neckline and pulled it down. “You need to exhibit this treasure chest of yours, girl.”

Tanya and Chantal gave Lady B a kiss and left. At the entrance, they picked up the keys to a 1957 Cadillac El Dorado convertible and drove off.

Lady B sat next to Windy in a couch.

Windy (L) and Lady B (R)

“So where exactly is this Japanese restaurant?” asked Windy.

“It’s miles and miles – close to the center of D.C. C’mon, we’ve got plenty of time. We’re having dinner with my Jap friends at 7 p.m.” replied Lady B.

“It’s going to be a very long drive for me, y’know,” said Windy.

“I’ll just have one goblet, then,” said Lady B. She walked to the bar, chose a bottle of white wine and a long stemmed goblet and then poured herself some wine.

A few minutes later the two women left the villa in separate cars – Lady B drove a metallic black 97R Mercedes SL 320 and Windy a pale yellow, aerodynamically-shaped, compact Toyota MR-2 Turbo T-bar.

THE OCTOBER 1996 presidential elections were about to take place. Three candidates were vying for the highest office in the United States and the three political parties had issued their public declaration of policy. After the presentation of their platforms, the final political debate followed, and a couple of weeks later Americans were at the polls to cast ballots in the presidential elections.

The politicians and observers overseeing the ballot boxes had been busy supervising the voting processes in every state, transporting ballot boxes from polling stations to counting stations.

From state to state, east to west, poll results rolled across the screens, sparking anxiety. For weeks, the presidential candidates and their respective parties had worked long hours to put their platform before the American public.

***

Finally the elections were over and the ballots counted. Americans anxiously awaited the official results. The day came and every television set in the country monitored the broadcast.

All across the country people were jubilant as the official results were announced. Balloons, flyers and other colorful banners filled the air. Champagne corks popped and the amber liquid sprayed everywhere; people in the streets were drunk with excitement.

“…the swearing-in of the newly elected president and the vice-president, shall take place on next January 20th in front of the capitol building,” a C2N newscaster said.

Chapter Ten available soon.  Come back soon. Here is a Chapter 10 taster:

LADY B, a tall, slim blonde with flawless skin, was impeccably groomed. She exuded glamour and her charismatic personality could charm a cobra. Her melodious voice and quick wit added to her attractiveness.

Dr. London placed a stethoscope between her generously endowed bosoms.

“If the world held a contest to find the most beautiful breasts ever created, Lady B would win by a mile!” he thought.