Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,30

I'll never forget it. Billy: Neither will I.

Gilly: And what you wonder about is whether we learned anything from it. When I say "we," of course, I mean mankind in general.

Billy: You certainly do wonder. The world seems to be in as much of a mess as ever.

Gilly: Yes, and not just nations, but people. We just don't seem to care about one another.

Billy: The whole bit is going on, all right. War, killing, violence, man's inhumanity to man.

Gilly: Yes.

Billy: Take organized crime. It's become an accepted part of everyday life.

Gilly: That's so true. The crime seems to be in getting caught, rather than in doing wrong.

Billy: Take the Cosa Nostra. It's everywhere.

Gilly: I wonder about that, though. You know, whether it's all true. All that melodramatic stuff about families. Billy: I believe it. Today's gangsters are organization men hiding behind business façades.

Gilly: Team men. Billy: Definitely.

Gilly: It's too bad we don't know one we could have on the show. Wouldn't that be fun?

Billy: If you'll pardon the pun, it might be a blast. Gilly: Oh, Billy.

Billy: No, you might get a real bang out of it.

Gilly: You're just too much today. Actually, Billy, a genuine gangster would probably be a very exciting person.

Billy: No doubt, but I think we should leave the gangsters to the crime committees. Let the government interview them.

Gilly: I suppose so. Anyway, we don't know any gangsters.

Billy: Don't be too sure. Like I said, they all have respectable fronts nowadays. For all we know, there might be one living in our own neighborhood.

Gilly: Mmmmm. Isn't that a marvelous thought? Billy: I thought it would get you.

Gilly: Mmmmm.

MARIO VELLA

Mario Vella eased the black Bonneville down the feeder road, mashed down on the accelerator, and spurted onto the Long Island Expressway. He liked the quick surge of power under his foot. That's where power should always be, he mused, under your foot, ready to be squeezed on or off with the slightest pressure.

He lifted his foot and the car slowed down to the legal limit. He would keep it that way for the next fifty-eight minutes, to the King's Neck turnoff. From there it was just twenty minutes on 25-A to the Dunes Motel and Gilly. He hoped she'd be on time. She always had some kind of excuse. Since the first time two weeks ago, she'd been arriving progressively later each time. He'd have to clamp down.

It was only 3:30 p.m. and he was out in front of the rush-hour traffic. His eyes flicked from the speedometer to the speed-limit sign at the Queens Boulevard exit. He had been commuting to King's Neck for two years now and he knew the speed limits as well as he knew the names of his children. But he was a careful man. That was his value to the Organization; he not only knew the system, he lived it. And one of the cardinal rules was: Don't break the little laws. That was for kids, not for professionals.

Mario Vella had succeeded where some of the best men in the Organization had failed. He had blended into his environment. To most of his neighbors he was Mario Vella, thirty-six, the darkly handsome owner of the highly successful Bella Mia Olive Oil Company and the equally affluent Fort Sorrento Construction Corporation in nearby Port Jefferson. He was also known to dabble in the entertainment field, most recently in the career of a fast-rising ballad singer, Johnny Alonga.

The young singer had waxed only one solid hit, "A Dying Love," but it had remained either on or reasonably near the top ten for eighteen months. Careers had been made on less. And Vella had produced the boy as a free entertainer at several local charity affairs and political dinners; he had even appeared twice for Vella at the King's Neck Country Club. Vella now was being flooded with invitations to become a board member of every worthwhile organization in sight. He could never be sure whether his popularity was attributable to Alonga or to his own ready checkbook. The Organization had helped. Whenever Vella lent his name to a fund-raising concern, journal ads poured in from construction and garment firms throughout the state.

There had been, of course, rumors of gangster associations, but they were hardly ever more than rumors. The newspaper that made the mistake of referring to him as a "friend of the underworld" – and that was eight years ago in another town – paid $45,000 for its error.

Next spring he was