“Is Temple of Poseidon. We go to Sounion and a little bit more.”
Ten minutes later he turned off the main road on to a sandy track that passed between groves of olives and through a small village. There, perched up on a hillside, was a large white villa. He stopped the car and pointed. “Is where we go. Yes. We meet them there.”
She nodded and then, turning to her, grinning, he shoved his hand under her skirt and up between her legs. Taken by surprise, she clawed at his face and reached for the door. He pulled back, blood on one cheek, his big brown eyes amazed. “Why you not want? We got plenty time to making love.”
“You must be crazy. Who the hell do you think you are?”
He shrugged. “American girls always like it with Greek men. Always.”
“Just take me to the place, mister. Get moving.”
The white stone walls flowed with bougainvillaea and the big wrought-iron gates were both wide open. As they reached the villa itself there were half a dozen cars parked over by a line of garages. A man stood at the open door. A huge man with a gross belly that overhung his leather belt. The backs of his hands and his arms were covered with thick black hair. He smiled as they walked towards him. And despite his gross body he had a certain charm as he waved them into the cool hallway.
He said in good English, “You like maybe to bath or rest before you meet the others?”
She shook her head. “They want me to catch the plane back tonight.”
“OK. Let’s go inside.” He opened a carved wooden door and there was the sudden sound of voices. Seated at a long table were ten or a dozen men who stopped talking as the big man led her round to the two chairs at the head of the table.
As she sat down the big man sat beside her and started talking in Greek. He spoke slowly and quietly as if he were explaining something. The men listened intently, sometimes looking at her as if the man was talking about her. She had seen him in the first few seconds.
Then the big man turned to her. “And now tell me your news.”
She pointed at the man who looked like Cary Grant. “That is the man.”
For a moment there was silence then like animals they seized the man. The man who had driven her there took her arm and led her through the open windows to a patio. She heard a man screaming, and blows, and men shouting before the driver reached out to close the window. He glanced at her and then said, “Is for going down the steps. You follow me. Nice and quick.”
Two hours later she was boarding the Pan Am flight to New York and San Francisco.
She saw “Sweetie” Dawson drive up in his beach buggy and waved to him from the window. As she opened the door for him she saw his face and her smile faded.
“What’s the matter, Sweetie, what’s happened?”
He stood there, hands belligerently on hips. “Maybe you’ll tell me what happened.”
She frowned. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Too Goddam true. So where were you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I came here like you said. Four o’clock Friday. I hang around for two hours but the place was empty. I phoned half the night but there was no answer. I came here four times on the Saturday and twice on Sunday. Nothing. So where you been, little girl?”
“I haven’t been anywhere, Sweetie.”
“You don’t need to give me that kind of crap, honey. You stood me up. You don’t need to lie about it.”
“I’m not lying, Sweetie. I’ve been here all the time, I swear. Why should I stand you up?”
“You tell me, honey. Maybe you found yourself a major or a colonel.”
“You’re out of your mind, Sweetie. Come on in.”
“You must be joking. I just wanted to hear what story you’d give me.” He turned and went down the steps, turning at the bottom to look back at her.
“You’re a two-timing bitch and …” He waved his arm hopelessly, his voice breaking as he turned away and walked to his buggy. He didn’t look back as he crashed the gears and tore away with a screech of tyres.
As she closed the door she leaned back against it, closing her eyes. She felt a floating sensation and she could smell mimosa. She walked slowly to her bedroom and lay down on the bed. She slept, still in her clothes, for a night and most of the next day.
5
Sam Giancana sat in his hotel suite watching the ball-game on Channel Two, the remote control on the arm of his chair. He had his feet up on the coffee-table, his veined and hairy legs exposed below the blue towelling bath-robe. From time to time he looked at his gold watch. He was agitated but not because he was scared. At least, no more scared than a man who is expecting the jackpot and fears that he might only get the second prize. Only half a million instead of a million.
There were mob bosses who still saw him as no more than the useful, competent thug that he had been when he started, and tonight he hoped that he could prove them wrong. There was no risk, no possibility of anything bad, just the question of whether it was going to be good or fantastic. He would be happy to settle for “good” but every instinct he had said that it was going to be the jackpot.
It was nearly two o’clock when she let herself into his room and he could tell from her face that it had worked. He cross-questioned her for nearly two hours. Trying to make her recall every word
