Screwed By The Pooch
Author: Lana Lovely
Glitz and glamor - a soiree aboard a millionaire's yacht, and the "interesting" people you meet . . .? Lonnie Ormandy is in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . or is she?
Available in .mobi for Kindle, .epub for NOOK and most other e-readers, and .pdf.
SCREWED BY THE POOCH
It wasn’t just a Ferrari; it was a bright red Ferrari, low and sleek with a price tag steep enough to send a televangelist reeling. Two wise guys got out, leaving the exotic sports car parked by the pier. From where I stood I could see the smears their grease-laden doos had deposited on the fine calfskin headrests. I knew them both from the old neighborhood: Vinnie “The Face” Calabrese and Sammy Pinto.
Calabrese lingered alongside the thoroughbred automobile just long enough to collect his share of envious glances. He exposed a mouthful of porcelain caps as he sucked the shred of Lobster Fra Diavolo from between his teeth. His caps were three shades too white. They were almost as bright as the Ferrari’s LED headlamps, and almost dazzling enough to steal attention from his hand tailored sharkskin suit.
Pinto tucked his rayon shirt into his Sansabelt hide the belly pants, and buttoned his jacket over his burgeoning gut. He was getting enormous—too many canolis.
They were quite a pair—two of the biggest scumbags Bensonhurst had ever produced.
They had it all, money, toys, and women.
Calabrese was married to an absolutely stunning Sicilian girl, but it never stopped him from grabbing a piece of ass on the side. He had two goumadas stashed in discrete locations around the city, and at one time bragged that he was seeing as many as five women at the same time. Why you ask? Why would he cheat on the Sicilian doll, the mother of his children? The obvious answer was that he was a no good piece of shit, who did anything he could get away with, but as a very wealthy man once told me, “Show me a gorgeous woman and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her.”
The sun had just begun to set as they trudged up the gangway. I met their probing glances head on. My instinct was to turn away before we made eye contact, but something inside bound me fast to my commitment. My skin began to crawl as their eyes slithered over me—it felt like the chilled caress of a serpent’s forked tongue. I thought about calling it quits, but I didn’t. Revenge had been a long time coming.
The running lights were on aboard The Clip Joint, a ninety-foot testament to the depravity of the American legal system: five-man crew—slept ten—usually, the captain and a gaggle of call girls. Leonard Clipstein, the whoremaster himself, stood beaming from the gunwale. The sun cast no reflection off the face powder that masked his weathered cheeks—great lengths had been gone to in order to conceal the extent of his advanced years. The old attorney was polished up like a shiny new penny. In the coin toss of life, Clipstein’s was a most unusual minting, a coin with two tails.