Lucy, Orsatti’s private secretary, knocked and came into the office. She was twenty-four years old, a college graduate, with a face and figure that had won several local beauty contests. Orsatti enjoyed having beautiful young women around him.
He looked at the clock on his desk. It was 10:45. He had told Lucy he did not want any interruptions before noon. He scowled at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Orsatti. There’s a Miss Gigi Dupres on the phone. She sounds hysterical, but she won’t tell me what she wants. She insists on speaking with you personally. I thought it might be important.”
Orsatti sat there, running the name through the computer in his brain. Gigi Dupres? One of the broads he had up in his suite his last time in Vegas? Gigi Dupres? Not that he could remember, and he prided himself on a mind that forgot nothing. Out of curiosity, Orsatti picked up the phone and waved a dismissal at Lucy.
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
“Is thees Mr. Anthony Orsatti?” She had a French accent.
“So?”
“Oh, thank God I get hold of you, Meester Orsatti!”
Lucy was right. The dame was hysterical. Anthony Orsatti was not interested. He started to hang up, when her voice went on.
“You must stop him, please!”
“Lady, I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about, and I’m a busy—”
“My Joe. Joe Romano. He promised to take me with him, comprenez-vous?”
“Hey, you got a beef with Joe, take it up with him. I ain’t his nursemaid.”
“He lie to me! I just found out he is leave for Brazil without me. Half of that three hundred thousand dollars is mine.”
Anthony Orsatti suddenly found he was interested, after all. “What three hundred thousand you talkin’ about?”
“The money Joe is hiding in his checking account. The money he—how you say?—skimmed.”
Anthony Orsatti was very interested.
“Please tell Joe he must take me to Brazil with him. Please! Weel you do thees?”
“Yeah,” Anthony Orsatti promised. “I’ll take care of it.”
Joe Romano’s office was modern, all white and chrome, done by one of New Orleans’s most fashionable decorators. The only touches of color were the three expensive French Impressionist paintings on the walls. Romano prided himself on his good taste. He had fought his way up from the slums of New Orleans, and on the way he had educated himself. He had an eye for paintings and an ear for music. When he dined out, he had long, knowledgeable discussions with the sommelier about wines. Yes, Joe Romano had every reason to be proud. While his contemporaries had survived by using their fists, he had succeeded by using his brains. If it was true that Anthony Orsatti owned New Orleans, it was also true that it was Joe Romano who ran it for him.
His secretary walked into his office. “Mr. Romano, there’s a messenger here with an airplane ticket for Rio de Janeiro. Shall I write out a check? It’s COD.”
“Rio de Janeiro?” Romano shook his head. “Tell him there’s some mistake.”
The uniformed messenger was in the doorway. “I was told to deliver this to Joseph Romano at this address.”
“Well, you were told wrong. What is this, some kind of a new airline promotion gimmick?”
“No, sir. I—”
“Let me see that.” Romano took the ticket from the messenger’s hand and looked at it. “Friday. Why would I be going to Rio on Friday?”
“That’s a good question,” Anthony Orsatti said. He was standing behind the messenger. “Why would you, Joe?”
“It’s some kind of dumb mistake, Tony.” Romano handed the ticket back to the messenger. “Take this back where it came from and—”
“Not so fast.” Anthony Orsatti took the ticket and examined it. “It says here one first-class ticket, aisle seat, smoking, to Rio de Janeiro for Friday. One way.”
Joe Romano laughed. “Someone made a mistake.” He turned to his secretary. “Madge, call the travel agency and tell them they goofed. Some poor slob is going to be missing his plane ticket.”
Joleen, the assistant secretary, walked in. “Excuse me, Mr. Romano. The luggage has arrived. Do you want me to sign for it?”