Manitti had no trouble with the apartment door to 6B. He didn't use a plastic card like they do in all the espionage books these days. He just used an old-fashioned flat blade shaped much like a surgeon's scalpel and a small tool that looked something like a steel knitting needle. It didn't take more than twenty seconds before the door swung open silently, and Manitti stepped aside to let me enter, a big congratulatory smile of self-satisfaction on his Neanderthal face.
There were no lights on in what was obviously a living room, but a light did shine beneath a closed door across the room. I moved across quickly, Locallo and Manitti right behind, each of us with a gun in hand.
I reached the door, flung it open, and stepped into the bedroom in one quick motion. I didn't want to give Droppo a chance to go for a gun.
I needn't have bothered.
Greggorio Droppo was much too busy, at least for the moment, to worry about such a small incident as three-armed men bursting into his bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. Droppo's naked body heaved spasmodically, twisting and churning the sheets under the girl he was making love to. Her arms were tight around his neck, pulling him to her, their faces locked together so that all we could see was grease-slicked hair, mussed now by the grasping fingers of the girl. Her slender legs, shapely and white against the hairy darkness of his body, were scissored around his waist, locked against the slipperiness of the sweat that poured from him. Her arms and legs were all we could see of her.
With a great threshing effort, Droppo reared backward and upward, the classic stud movement before the final screaming plunge. Not having a glass of ice water handy, I did the next best thing and kicked him in the ribs with the point of my shoe.
He froze. Then his head snapped around, eyes wide in disbelief. "Wha-a-a-at…?"
I kicked him again and he gasped in pain. He pulled out, rolling off the girl and onto his back, holding his side in agony.
The sudden departure of her lover left the girl spread-eagled on her back, eyes protruding in terror. She half-raised herself on her elbows, her mouth opened to scream. I clasped my left hand over her mouth and forced her flat back against the sheets, then leaned over and pointed Wilhelmina at her, the muzzle just an inch from her eyes.
She struggled for a moment, arching her sweaty body under the pressure of my hand, then realized what she was looking at and froze, her gaze riveted on the gun. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead, matting the disheveled strands of her red hair.
Next to her, Droppo started to swing his legs over the side of the bed but Locallo was there. Almost casually he whipped the barrel of his revolver across Droppo's face and he dropped back with an anguished howl, clutching at his bloody nose. With one hand, Locallo whipped a crumpled pillow up off the floor and crammed it over Droppo's face, shutting off the sounds. With the other, he smashed between Droppo's extended legs so that the butt of his pistol slammed into the naked man's groin.
An animal sound came from beneath the pillow and the body convulsed high into the air, back arched, all the weight on the shoulders, then collapsed limply on the bed.
"He's passed out, boss," Locallo said laconically. I think he was disappointed.
"Take the pillow away so he doesn't suffocate," T ordered. I looked down at the girl and waved Wilhelmina menacingly. "No noise, no nothing when I take my hand away. Understand?"
She nodded as best she could, eyes staring at me in terror. "Okay," I said. "Relax. We're not going to hurt you." I took my hand away from her mouth and stepped back.
She lay motionless, and the three of us stood there, guns in hand, taking in her beauty. Even with the sweat of sex on her, the terror in her eyes, and the tangled mass of hair, she was exquisite. Her bare breasts heaved and tears suddenly poured from the green eyes.
"Please, please don't hurt me," she whimpered. "Please, Nick."
Then I recognized her. It was Rusty Pollard, the little redhead in the green dress I'd flirted with at the party at Tony's, the same one who, years before, had begun Philomina's torment with an anonymous envelope containing a clipping from the Times.
Standing next to me, Manitti was beginning to breathe hard. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed. He leaned over the bed, one hand reaching for her breast.
I cracked him across the side of the head with my gun hand and he jerked back, stunned.
Tears streamed down Rusty's cheeks. I looked at her naked body contemptuously. "If it's not one little squat Italian, it's another, right, Rusty?"
She gulped, but didn't answer.
I reached over and prodded Droppo, but he was inert. "Bring him to," I told Locallo.
I turned back to Rusty. "Get up and get dressed."
She started to sit up slowly and looked at her own naked body as if just realizing that she was lying completely nude in a room with four men, three of whom were virtual strangers.
She jerked into a sitting position, snapping her knees together and doubling them up in front of her. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at us wildly. "You lousy sons of bitches," she spat.
I laughed. "Don't be so modest, Rusty. We've already seen you making it with this jerk. We're not likely to see you looking any worse." I yanked her by the arm and pulled her out of bed onto the floor.
I could feel that one little spark of fight go out of her right there. I let go and she slowly got to her feet and went over to the chair next to the bed, avoiding our eyes. She picked up a lacy black bra and started to put it on, looking away at the wall as she did. Complete humiliation.
Manitti licked his lips and I glared at him. Locallo came back from the kitchen carrying four cans of cold beer.
He put them all down on the dresser and opened them carefully. He gave one to me, one to Manitti, and took one himself. Then he took the fourth one and poured it steadily over the inert body of Lemon-Drop Droppo, the beer slopping over the sweaty form and soaking the sheet around him.
Droppo came to with a groan, hands instinctively reaching for his outraged genitals.
I tapped him on the bridge of his mangled nose with Wilhelmina just hard enough to make tears start in his eyes. "Who?" he gasped, "what…?"
"Just do exactly what I say, chum, and you might survive."
"Who?" he managed to get out again.
I smiled benignly. "Popeye Franzini," I said. "Now get up and get dressed."
Terror showed in his eyes as he slowly rose from the bed, one hand still clutching his groin. He dressed slowly, and gradually I could sense a change in his attitude. He was trying to appraise the situation, looking for a way out. He was hating more than hurting, and a hating man is dangerous.
Droppo finished the laborious process of tying his shoes, an occasional groan escaping his tightly compressed lips, then used both hands on the bed to lever himself to his feet. As soon as he was standing I slammed my knee into his crotch. He screamed and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
I motioned to Locallo. "Get him up again, Franco."
On the other side of the room, fully dressed now, Rusty Pollard suddenly came alive again. Her hair was still mused and her lipstick smeared, but the kelly green skirt and black silk blouse she had put on over her bra and panties had given her courage again.
"That was brutal," she hissed. "He wasn't doing anything to you."
"Sending that clipping to Philomina Franzini years ago was brutal, too," I retorted. "She wasn't doing anything to you, either."
The last bit of brutalizing had taken the final vestige of fighting spirit out of Lemon-Drop Droppo and he came down the stairs with us quietly, slightly bent over, both hands pressed tightly to his abdomen.
We put Rusty up front with Locallo and Manitti, and jammed Droppo between Louie and me in the back seat. Then we drove to the Chalfont Plaza. Louie, Droppo, and I went in the main entrance of Manny's place while the other three went in through the Lexington Avenue side.