Chapter 1

“I guess that didn’t go very well,” I said to myself as I walked down the street towards my car. I could hear my sister saying, “You need to work on your social skills.” That was her solution to everything including male groping.

I must admit I have never been known as a particularly sociable woman. What I mean by that is that when it comes to the social aspects of society, I don’t consider myself the brightest bulb in the basket. My sister would disagree, but I point out to her on many occasions, that I don’t look like a knock-off Beyoncé like her. I am, for all intents and purposes, dull and invisible. There are wallflowers at dances, and then there’s me – hiding in the lady’s room waiting for it to be over.

“You just need to get better at your footwork.” She would say. “Dodging is a big part to being popular.” Great, I wasn’t Mohammed Ali, and I had little training in stinging or soaring, or whatever nonsense an ex-boxer could shed upon me. I have certain skillsets, and avoiding pushy advances wasn’t one of them.

There is my idiot savant skillset if you will. I am a genius with numbers, and I have memorized every episode of the classic, television show, Star Trek. Not sure if the last talent can be marketed except at Trek convention trivia contests. However, in the twenty-two years I’ve been on earth, there hasn’t been a mathematical equation I couldn’t solve easily in my head. Since I had graduated from Penn State, that talent has garnered me an audience with some of the biggest banks in the City of Brotherly Love. I guess it didn’t hurt that I now have a B.S. degree in Finance either.

Oh, and I live in Philadelphia, home of the Liberty Bell, the Philly cheese steak and South Philly mobsters. I surprise people when I arrive. No one expects a green-eyed, café Olay woman with curly hair and a slightly Southern accent. Most folks usually like me, after a turn, mostly because of my soft-spoken manner and quiet disposition. I’m also a local from South Philly, so theoretically they can hire me “on the cheap.” 

What I like about South Philly mobsters is their code of ethics. And yes, they do have one if movies are any indicator. I don’t truly know any mobsters, but I’ve heard enough about them being a Philly girl. Their code of ethics is simple. They never shoot up the neighborhood when they have a beef with one person. They shoot that person with a gun that second amendment junkies would find acceptable. They wouldn’t go into a mall and shoot up a bunch of innocent bystanders to get one person. Sometimes they’ll stab them or garrote them, but very seldom will they include innocent people. They keep it all neat and civilized – as civilized as a cold, blooded killer can be. However, I have always respected the way they handled situations.

When one of them appears on the local news, shot in the back of the head or in the eye, they are always in their shiny black Lincolns or silver grey Cadillacs – luxury and blood.  No family members or innocent bystanders strewn about. You know, classy. Which brings me to my current dilemma; the real mobster versus the fictional model I’ve always respected from afar.

One day, after a long, bad interview with a local bank, I walked down the street exhausted and frustrated. The interview had been a disaster with the bank president all but telling me to keep looking for another job in another bank, maybe in another city. What had started as a decent interview, quickly degenerated into a groping match in the president’s office. What a farce.

I was absorbed totally in replaying that crappy interview, slash get-your-hands-off-my body session, so I didn’t notice right off that a car had slid to a stop beside me and inched forward as I walked. I was startled out of my reverie by a man blocking my way as the car slid to a stop. It was black, long and shiny – the car, I mean, not the man. He wasn’t half bad to look at either save the long, ugly scar that ran the length of his left jaw just under the eye to the jawbone. He had bluish grey eyes, dirty blond hair and might be considered attractive if he smiled, but he didn’t smile. Opening the back door of the car, he motioned me to get in. Are you fucking kidding me? I looked at him, and he gave me the most serious of expressions. This was not a voluntary invitation.

I continued to gape at him forcing him finally to speak. “The boss wants to talk with you about a job.” The boss? Who, Bruce Springsteen? What the hell? The man let his coat fall open revealing a snub nosed revolver underneath. I looked around for help. The street was empty. Great. I’m standing on a street that nobody walks on after being accosted by a bank president in the middle of his office that nobody enters. Could my day get any worse?

I guess it could get worse. The Boss, with his gun toting chauffeur, wanted to talk to me. This had to be a bad joke, reality television stunt. Some guy with a camera is going to leap out of the bushes and tell me surprise, I’ve been pranked. Nobody seriously does this. Scar man motions again with his head. This is like an excerpt from a cheesy mafia movie, not that I know all that much about the mob.

“I’m not getting in that car.” I continued to stand still until he reaches for my arm. He obviously was not taking “no” for an answer. I don’t know why – maybe because he was about to shove me - but I hesitantly lean into the vehicle. Scarface man pushes me, and I fall unceremoniously into the leather seat inside.

I know, I know. I should have screamed, and run screeching for a policeman, but I didn’t. I simply fell in face first, scrambling to a seated position, I knew that I was probably about to become another statistic on the evening news -- unemployed woman disappears mysteriously after a less than stellar bank interview with groping bank president.

There would be vast speculation; my imagination flared. It has a habit of doing that. Did she commit suicide; had she run afoul of less than savory elements. . . Was she kidnapped for ransom? That last part was almost laughable. I had so little money, I didn’t know how I was going to make the rent this month, so what ransom? And, in reality, no one would ever miss me. I was forgettable, a cog in the mass of forty seven percent people who worked hard and were invisible to most of society. And, commit suicide? That last part was also ridiculous. Who would care if I killed myself? Maybe, Mr. Whiskers, my cat, because he depended on me for food and water. But, who else?

My dad might file a missing persons report. Yeah right, my dad might notice the next time he needed money I didn't have that I wasn't around. He was too busy in Atlantic City to call on my birthday, which was three months ago. So, why would he suddenly notice if his invisible daughter disappeared?

Yep, it was the ol’ Lemony Snicket move - I had just plunged into this strange car, because there was nothing else for me to do. Scarface man had said the magic word – JOB! This was the most excitement I had experienced in the last three years since I’d broken up with my nerd boyfriend from college. And I might be able to pay my rent AND have food to eat next month.

In any case, it was a lot better than standing on the street in shoes that were too old, headed for a rust bucket of a car that might start or not, carrying a faux leather portfolio that held my worthless resumes heralding my few successes in the workforce. The invitation had come at gun point, and that, in some sick way, spelled adventure. I told you I wasn’t too bright.

The man seated next to me is someone I recognize from the evening news. He was always getting into hot water with the law and somehow getting off on a technicality – Philadelphia’s Teflon Don. My stomach knotted. What kind of job could he want me to do? And, would I live through my employment? Or would I get shot in the head, given cement overshoes and dumped in the Schuylkill River?

Killed by the mob. This is the stuff of novels, which is pretty much all that I know about the Mafia – that and those classic Corleone movies everyone watched. I instantly hear that mafia music in my head. But, that fictional family was located in New York, and this was Philly, so maybe they don’t operate like them. Oh come on. That family was from Hollywood, and probably the Mafia was offended by those movies because they were so far from mob reality.

Who knows, but I have always watched them. You know, you watch Charlton Heston part the Red Sea on Easter, the Twilight Zone marathon on New Year’s Day, and the Godfather saga sometime in the summer. It was tradition, and it was also the beginning, middle and end of my mob smarts.

We had driven onto the expressway before he said anything as if talking in a neighborhood was taboo. I don’t know, maybe it was my rising panic, but I didn’t want to die in Horsham or West Chester or some other suburb where it was even less populated. Why couldn’t we stay in Center City even if he picked the one block where there wasn’t hordes of people running around. And, cops – where was Philly’s finest when you needed them? If we went to the Burbs, he could just roll up, dump my body and drive on . . . Especially in West Chester. It would take days, weeks maybe even months to find a body out there.

“Young lady, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. I’ve wanted to have this conversation for a while, but there just didn’t seem to be the right time.” He reached over and pulled a glass tumbler out of a small fridge. “It’s perplexing to me that you haven’t been snapped up by one of the big banks in the city.” He poured a drink then motioned it to me. He’s been watching me and wanting to talk for a period of time? Okay, this was getting creepy, not the drink, but the fact that he knows me so well.

“No, thank you,” I said as he took a swig from it himself. “I guess I haven’t found the right fit for me yet.” The right fit would be anybody who hired me.

“That is very admirable, but maybe it has more to do with the paltry sums they’re offering.”

No, it has more to do with the fact that they aren’t offering anything. Paltry, I can deal with; interviews without offers, not so much. “It could be.”

“This is a very hard world to live in,” He hands me a piece of paper. “I would like to employ your math and bookkeeping services for my company.” I unfold the paper, and my heart skips a beat. In fact, my whole body skips a beat. The offer is . . . I must be misunderstanding the salary. I count the zeroes again before looking up at him.

“Are you serious? Who do I have to kill?” I can’t believe I just said that.

“I need your services as a bookkeeper and mathematical genius bean counter. I have other people who handle my messier jobs.” He chuckles when he says this, and I chuckle in return. Great, I don’t have to kill anybody just cover the expenses when he has somebody else do it. What would I put that under, Office Expense? “Just kidding. I am a respectable business person.”

I look back at the paper. The yearly salary offered was more money than I’d had made in the past three years combined, so why was I hesitating? Who am I kidding? Going to work as a mob bean counter? This could be a long-term, lucrative position with lots of job security and perks, or it could be a real short service that ended with me sleeping with the fishes.

I’ve honestly got to stop dredging up these hackneyed Mafia phrases like “sleeping with the fishes.” Besides I couldn’t remember if it was sleeping, eating, swimming or dining with those damn fish. So, I might not even be using the hackneyed cliché in the correct way.

If he says he’s a respectable business person now, who am I to question him. He also said that I wouldn’t have to deal with any messes, just show up and do my job. “So, my job would be entirely legal. I wouldn’t be involved with anything nefarious.” Nefarious? Really, you said that to a Mafia Don? Are you totally crazy or just suicidal?

“No, of course not,” he chuckled then got dead serious. “But, not everything is black and white. There might be some grey areas that I would need your assistance with. This is a real offer, but it’s only good for today. Think about the money, your future and how you might finally be able to help your dad with his gambling debts, buy that new fur coat you’ve been eying, or better yet, finally be able to take that vacation to Maui that sits there idle on your search engine.” He put the glass down and leaned back waiting for my reaction.

“Are you kidding me?” I say before I think. Now, I am angry, no, furious that he knows everything about me. I can’t believe he even knows I want to go to Maui! Nobody knows that except me and Mr. Whiskers, and I know my cat hasn’t been spilling the beans to the mob. “How dare you –“

He holds up his hand stopping me mid-protestation. “I need to know everything about my prospective employees prior to hiring them.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a ‘job application’? Maybe, a job interview?” This was worse than the groping bank president. Yes, I needed the money, but no, I didn’t want my life to be an open book laid bare before the world. Did he know I slept with my bunny from childhood or that I talked to my cat like he was human? Well, Mr. Whiskers was human, sort of.

He seemed to read my thoughts, because he spread his hands out flat in a conciliatory fashion, “I meant no offense. I must, however, find out as much as I can. Surely, you can understand for a man in my position. You will be handling some of the most sensitive areas of my business.”

“But, you didn’t even ask me.” I could feel my anger winding down. I never could hold on to anger for extremely long, and it was occurring to me that I was yelling at one of the most powerful underworld figures in the Philadelphia area. With a wave of his hand, I could be back with those fishes or I could find a horse head in my bed. My bed might be too small for a horse’s head, but it could be the head of Mr. Whiskers. I shudder involuntarily.

I need to stop yelling at this man. I’ve only talked to him for half an hour, and I’m already treating him like I did my nerdy boyfriend, and I know how well that worked out for me. I certainly didn’t like the fact that he knew this much about me, but I suppose I could chalk it up to his due diligence. What is a little invasion of privacy now versus cement overshoes later?

“I see that I’ve upset you. Perhaps, you’d like to take a day or two to think things over. I know I said I need an answer today, but I can wait. However, please believe me, I am not the most patient of men so do hurry with your decision making.” He smiled at me, and I was reminded of Bruce the shark from Finding Nemo. This was a mafia shark at an AA meeting, and I was Dory. We were being driven by Chum, the Mako shark and this wasn’t the expressway but the Great Barrier reef. I didn’t want to be around when Bruce lost his adherence to being a “nice shark.” Okay, enough of Finding Nemo or they would soon be Finding Randi. Randi Andrews, that’s me, the fish bait in the long, black mafia limo heading towards West Chester, I think.

 “I don’t need the day to think it over. I believe I will take the job. It’ll afford me the opportunity to help my dad and even allow me to save some money for the future. I know most people think of you as a mobster, but I’m going to keep an open mind. It’s not like you have ever been convicted of anything.” There, I did it. Hope I didn’t look as desperate as I feel, but if he knows everything about me, then he probably knows I’m flat broke, too. So, what the hell. I’m a Geronimo kind of person when it comes to starvation and living in a shelter or being homeless with my cat. At least I have this skill to save me.

His smile is classic Bruce, a brilliant set of white teeth that make me feel even more uneasy, like he has secrets that he was keeping to himself about me. I know he has secrets: people he’s had killed, legs and arms he’s had twisted – you know, those messier jobs I won’t be involved in. But, what else does he know about me? What else has he done to insure that I come to work for him. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’ve been on 23 interviews with no success.

I can’t even seem to get a typing job in this town. I know the economy is bad, but my resume can’t be that dreadful. The only guy who gave me an interview was groping president guy.  Now you’re just being paranoid, Randi. I look at his brilliant smile again. He has dead eyes, shark eyes and if I keep looking at him, he’s going to start looking off color slightly bluish around the edges.

Bruce, you were just hired by a shark from Finding Nemo. I should be happy with all the cash I’m about to earn, but all I feel right now is slightly nauseous. I want to run, but we’re on the endless “Shorekill” expressway, and there’s nowhere to run. I never excelled at extreme sports, so the idea of leaping out of a moving car and dropping and rolling to safety is beyond me.

“Excellent!” He reaches over and shakes my hand. “You’ll make a fine addition to my corporation. You’ll be classified as my bookkeeper, but in actuality, you’ll be much more than that. I want you to make it look like I’m running a perfectly legal coffee empire, which in fact is what I’m doing.”

So, if he’s running a perfectly legitimate coffee empire, why do I have to make it look that way? Doesn’t it “look that way” already? Besides aren’t mobsters always into waste management? Whoever heard of a mobster running a coffee business? I look at him and smile. “Of course.” Great, now my voice is squeaking. I clear my throat and try again. “Is all of it about coffee?”

He looks at me blankly for a second the smile lessening, and my panic returns. I wasn’t asking about your mobster business. “I was wondering about how you distribute your coffee.”

“Oh!” the smile returns. “I run a number of small coffee shops in Philadelphia. We also sell coffee beans, accessories and all those fancy coffees people like to drink: lattes, mochas, frappes – if it’s at Starbuck’s, we probably sell it. But it’s authentic Philadelphia, not a franchise like the Bucking Coffee Broncos or the Indian strongholds.”

It’s my turn to stare at him. Indian Strongholds? What the hell are you talking about? There aren’t any Indians in Philadelphia worth mentioning, are there? And, I don’t think they’re in strongholds. I haven’t seen many compounds in Philly. Maybe, I’m just blind. “Uh, I –“

“My nickname for Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts. Get it, Indian stronghold – Indians with a dot and not a feather. They always come here and open up coffee shops. And Starbucks is for the “new” rich, yuppie puppies.” He laughs loudly at his own joke. I feel another cringe coming on. He’s not that funny.

Ya think, my inner voice puts in. He’s not even a little funny, but since he can kill you on a whim, I would laugh. I giggle from nervousness of that realism which Bruce takes to mean I like his jokes. I don’t really care why he thinks I’m laughing as long as he thinks I’m with him on the same page.

“I knew I was going to like you. And, let me stress again, there’s nothing illegal that you’ll be doing, but you will be straddling the fence at times.” He turns the card with the incredible salary over with his other hand. “Come to this address at eight tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you a better idea of what I mean. You never know who’s lurking around here, so I would feel more comfortable if we continue this at my office.”

Lurking around here? We are on the expressway driving at 70 miles an hour. I realize then that we have gone full circle and have headed back into Center City. We have been out driving in circles, speeding at about 70 or 80 miles an hour down a 55 MPH road. Not one cop has even rolled up to inquire who or why we are driving so fast.

I drive at 50-60 MPH partly because my car would fall apart at faster speeds and of course, I am cautious. The last thing I need is to lose my muffler on the expressway coming up to City Avenue. People change lanes at high speeds on the Shorekill which is why Philadelphians nicknamed it that, and my muffler or any other part of my vehicle would die an agonizing death out there. Not to mention the havoc it would bring to any vehicle running into or over my car parts.

We come off the exit at Broad Street, gliding to a stop at 15th & JFK Boulevard. Without saying another word, he pushes the door open for me to exit. The door slams shut as both my feet hit the pavement, and the car veers back into traffic. Damn, he can’t even give me a ride home; I know he knows where I live. I still have to either walk to my car or take the bus home and hope I don’t get ticketed overnight. And, of course, now it’s starting to rain.

I search in my bag for an umbrella, finding a small, slightly mashed up model in the bottom of my endless bag. I also find a crisp $100 dollar bill in there as well. When did he put that in my bag? I’m sure it had to be Bruce, because the groping bank president sure as hell wouldn’t want to tip me.

I stare down at the figure on the paper clasped in my hand, still in bit of a shock at the number scrawled across it. I mean, it would take me years to make this kind of money and he was offering it as a yearly salary.

This large sum of cash would help me do the one thing that no one was able to do and that was get my dad out from under the loan sharks. Not that he’s done much for me, but his sperm did create me, so I guess I owe him something. I can pay off the other “not-so-nice” sharks, and he may be able to get a fresh start. It’s something I’m going to bring up to him when I see him next. Maybe I’ll have time to go to A.C. and drag him away from the poker table to talk. He will have to want to start over, maybe, go to a gamblers anonymous meeting and stop throwing all his money down the drain. 

Mr.  Colella aka Bruce I learned online was known to keep his employees happy, but I figure if there was anybody who wasn’t happy, they weren’t going to really complain about it. I also didn’t do too much searching remembering that he knew where I wanted to vacation by looking at my search engine history. How he did that made me wary about using the tech too much. Maybe, I’ll go back to pen and paper, perhaps take one of those memory courses.

In terms of the job, I look at it this way - it wasn’t as if it was against the law to sell coffee even though lattes are so expensive people should get arrested for selling them. Technically, until I knew different, this was a legit job with a legit business. I know my arguments are weak, but they are enough to make up my mind.

***

Hot tea. Finally. I sit in my comfy, ratty recliner and turn on the television. Cable news, ah. Tea and television. That’s the story of my life in the evenings. Yes, it’s a bit boring, but if my days are going to be filled with terror, dread and suspense, my night should be boring and issue free. I am watching some cable news anchor, screeching about the latest state of politics. I lean forward and pick up the book I am reading, 50 Shades of Pornography, BDSM and Love. This book has dragged me around like a horny puppy on a leash, and the main male character has spiced up my dream life considerably. They sure do know how to make love, uh, have sex.

You are one of the most airheaded women I’ve ever read, but your lack of experience sure does lend itself to this plotline. I pick up where I left off; rescue, anger, sex. God, this girl is ready for anything. My stomach lurches in response, but I also feel a wetness between my legs. My nipples stiffen; I want to be you; I want him to do it that to me. I stop reading and close my eyes, feeling the man of my dreams kissing my neck, my chest, my breasts – laying feather like kisses on each breath before continuing downward. My hands work the magic, but my imagination fuels the fantasy. They aren’t my hands; they’re my dream lover’s hands, rubbing me lightly down near my navel. I imagine the feeling of soft kisses, little licks going below my navel towards my sex. Parting my legs, my finger finds my clit and starts making lazy circles like a tongue. It is a a tongue, I feel the coolness of the wetness down there.

I continue to massage my clit as it grows under the stimulation. I want a man to make love to me, yes. But right now I can settle for fantasy man My clit grows and the feeling between my legs is deliciously tightening building towards climax. The feeling is so nice, so nasty and intense.

My fingers work faster and I rub my nipples in convert, pinching them and pulling them enjoying the slight pain my actions cause. Almost there; my dream man is lapping, licking and sucking my clit furiously. I can see his head between my legs. Nasty, so nasty nice. My other hand goes inside me, pumping like he’s finger fucking me rubbing that roughness right at the opening of me. It feels so good…..sooooo good.

 I feel the explosion and the wetness that squirts out between my legs. I rub a little more then lay down panting and exhausted. My dream man has done it again. Yes, I’d love a real man to do that to me, but where is he? In the meantime, I depend on dream man to make my lusty dreams come true.

“Where are you,” I whisper to an empty room. He got hit by a bus on his way to your apartment, my mind dutifully supplies. I turn over, away from the karping in my head and go to sleep. I refuse to believe that my dream man was run down by a Septa bus.