Stiletto D'oro

STILETTO D’ORO

A NOVEL BY

JAMES THOMAS

Copyright © 1996, 2006 by James Thomas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/24/2021

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

F t. Lauderdale, Florida is a waterfront city that has long been a playground for the rich and famous. Million dollar homes nestle alongside multi-million dollar estates, all of which are built along interconnecting waterways. It is a city where boats number in the tens of thousands. Naturally, such a concentrated abundance of wealth has served to upstart a vast number of waterfront cafes and bars from which party goers and fine diners alike may watch the nightly parade of expensive yachts as they transient the Intracoastal Waterway. It is a parade of affluence and decadence at its finest.

The Gold Coast of Florida is an area where wealth goes beyond measurement and is perpetual. There always has been, and always will be, someone bigger and faster—someone with a larger yacht, a faster car, a sleeker jet. The possibilities are directly proportionate to desire and the sky is the limit. Competition is fierce, perhaps even audacious. Yet, that only serves to attract the wealthy. It is a melting pot for the rich. However, for many it has also been their waterloo. Trust Fund Babies—young recipients of inherited fortunes—flock from near and far to jockey into position as potential suitors for devastatingly beautiful women. Those in the know often refer to those beauties as Zoologists. When referred to in this context, a Zoologist is one who is on the hunt for four particular species—a jaguar in her garage, a mink in her closet, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who will pay for it all without questions asked.

Unfortunately, those not in the know must learn. Many a wealthy man has relocated to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to, show them how it is done, only to find himself well laid, but penniless, some three years later.

Of course, as with any game of desire, the have nots are always figuring a means to compete with the haves. Enter crime, cons, strippers, smugglers, gambling . . . it would be necessary to update the list daily, for imagination and desire know no holiday. There is but one desire . . . one goal . . . and that desire knows no discrimination whatsoever. In order to compete with the haves one needs nothing more that a burning desire to become a Player.

This is a story of some of those Players, so please, read on . . . if you dare!

CHAPTER ONE

T he cloudless, robin’s egg-blue sky allowed the tropical sun to blaze down upon the afternoon sunbathers positioned around the bar’s pentagon shaped swimming pool. Between the hours of 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. the five-sided pool is so crowded that it is impossible for one to walk its perimeter. Lounge chairs are parallel parked against one another, and for the most part, stranger beside stranger. Saturday afternoon revelers stand three deep at the bar hollering their drink orders across rows of fellow drinkers to one of the five bartenders on duty. Bathing suits and shorts are deemed acceptable attire, while tops range from one hundred dollar beaded sequined T-shirts to skimpy bikinis so tiny that they barely cover the overflowing D-cup sized breasts beneath them. This was just another typical weekend at Pegleg’s, a favorite waterfront watering hole.

A wooden-planked dock stretches the full length across the pool and bar then continues north alongside the adjoining establishment, Shylock’s. For all practical purposes, the two are one in the same—same owner; both serve food and drinks, and are jointly connected by the swimming pool and patio area. Yet, the two bars that have been widely renowned as famous Ft. Lauderdale hot spots could not be more different. Pegleg’s caters to a more casual crowd, while the sophisticated drinkers favor Shylock’s.

On this particular Saturday the patrons were standing three deep at Shylock’s. Thick gold necklaces adorned nearly every neck, male and female. Heavy bracelets offset the weight of solid gold wristwatches—preferably a Rolex Presidential, its face surrounded by a platinum and diamond bezel. The jewelry is far more than an expensive ornament made from precious metals set with gems and worn for personal adornment. It was a statement. Not a fashion statement, yet a statement that identified its wearer as a Player to others. In today’s world of imitation knock-offs, every wanna-be and his brother is sporting a Rolex watch. It is their ticket into the big leagues. However, for the most part all it buys them is a comfortable seat from where they may observe just how the game is really played.

The dock that runs the entire length of both restaurants was completely full. As a matter of fact, boats were rafted one off the other until they stretched seven across into the Intracoastal Waterway. Neatly dressed young men scurried from boat-to-boat, bow-to-stern, while they frantically adjusted lines and fenders. Meanwhile, as many as ten boats at one time lingered nearby, their positions maintained by the careful jockeying of the throttles on their powerful twin-engines, their owners anxiously awaiting the next available slot at Shylock’s. These beautiful boats are commonly referred to as go-fasts, and regardless of the brand they all share one common nucleus—they cost upwards of hundreds-of-thousands of dollars.

If owning one of these big boys’ toys were to be placed in terms more familiar with baseball, a go-fast would be a ground rule double. At Shylock’s a go-fast automatically advances the owner to second base without hesitation. These boats pre-qualify prospective catches for the women, it is common knowledge that it takes a lot of liquid cash to own and run one of these toys.

Precisely at 4 p.m. the sunbathing area alongside the swimming pool was cleared of sunbathers, at least enough to allow a walk through pathway completely around its five sides. The four-piece band stopped playing when the announcer took over the microphone. Seconds later his voice boomed across the bar and the Intracoastal Waterway when he announced, Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please. In fifteen minutes we’ll begin Pegleg’s famous bikini contest. Could . . . HONK! HONK! WHOOP! WHOOP! The master of ceremony’s voice was immediately drowned out by the blaring of the many boat horns, along with the exuberant yells from the excited bar patrons. Once the noise receded to a moderate roar, the M.C. continued, Could I have today’s contestants come forward to the stage. Judges, I’ll need you up front in ten minutes, please. The applause suddenly became deafening. Finally he was able to add, Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the management here at Pegleg’s and Shylock’s, I would like to thank you for choosing us as the place to spend your Saturday afternoon. Thank you. This time the crowd broke into an applause that sent waves of noise echoing from the high rise condominiums across the waterway. The go-fasts repeatedly blew their horns while those aboard raised their drinks high in a ceremonial gesture. Within moments, the world famous bikini contest would commence.

As a bevy of bikini clad beauties slowly worked their way toward the poolside stage, Vincent Panachi signaled the bartender. Vincent was a regular at Shylock’s waterfront bar, and, as a result of his patronage, he had struck up a friendship with one of the bartenders, Tony. Now being a regular in an establishment as popular as Shylock’s does have certain advantages, one of which is being able to immediately get a bartender’s attention. For the most part the people behind the bar are constantly in the weeds, an industry term that denotes their sections are full and their orders behind. However, when Tony was not buried in the weeds he made it a point to linger in front of Vincent’s seat and fill him in on who’s who. It made for an amiable relationship. Tony took care of Vincent with drinks and information while Vincent made certain that Tony always had a good financial day.

Vincent had appeared on the Ft. Lauderdale scene five years earlier, and Tony vividly recalled the first time he had seen him. Vincent had been sitting at his section and had ordered a magnum of Moet Chandon champagne. Tony had routinely prepared a sterling silver bucket with crushed ice, and then had carefully placed the large bottle in it. However, one time Tony had placed it in front of Vincent and Vincent had waved his hand in a brushing manner and had replied, We don’t need all that flash and pizzazz. Why don’t you just stick the bottle in the ice bin and chill the glasses behind the bar. Okay?

Tony remembered that he had simply nodded and had answered, Sure.

The scene had made a lasting impression upon him though, mostly because it had been his experience that everyone that spent a hundred plus dollars on a bottle of champagne wanted the entire fanfare that accompanied such expenditure. It was as if they wanted everyone sitting at the bar to know what was being consumed and by whom. Initially Vincent had appeared no different to the seasoned bartender, yet time had proved that assumption wrong. Unlike the mass majority of other champagne drinkers, Vincent had proved that he could afford the game and Tony had witnessed it over the years. High rollers; big shots; tourists in town for a well deserved two-week vacation, trying their absolute damnedest to spend the limit on their credit cards. Most did, and then returned home where they could lick their financial wounds for another fifty weeks before attempting another go at the high life. That was by far the rule rather than the exception. Vincent Panachi was that exception, he sat there year after year at Tony’s station regularly ordering expensive bottles of champagne. Vincent never seemed to hit that financial lull that others inevitably experienced. As Tony had once commented to one of his fellow co-workers behind the bar, The man definitely has financial staying power.

Tony stopped in front of Vincent’s seat and queried, Is that it, Vince?

The handsome Italian replied, Yeah, that’s enough damage for today.

Vincent grinned as he casually tossed an American Express Platinum Card on top of the brass-covered bar, just as he had done countless times before. Tony returned the ingratiating smile, and then disappeared with the credit card. While he was gone Vincent reached into his trouser pocket, removed the money clip and peeled a fifty dollar bill from the folded wad he always carried. Heedful not to attract the attention of the fellow drinkers around him, Vincent raised his champagne glass by its narrow stem and slipped the bill beneath it. Tony reappeared a moment later with the credit card receipt, and Vincent signed it with a flourish. They exchanged a handshake while assuring one another, I’ll see you tomorrow.

That exchange had not gone unnoticed. An attractive woman in her early thirties was sitting across the bar from Vincent and witnessed the transaction. Long blond hair flowed past her shoulders and swept to one side exposing a glittering one-carat diamond earring. A half-full glass of chilled champagne set on the bar in front of her.

She carefully watched while Vincent pocketed the credit card, turned around and began weaving his way through the crowd toward the dock. While doing so Vincent inadvertently glanced her way and noticed her looking at him. It wasn’t her attractiveness that initially grasped his attention. It was the afternoon sun reflecting off the diamond bezel on her lady’s Rolex Presidential that sent a dazzlingly colorful spectrum of light in forty directions. Vincent noticed a small red lipstick mark smeared across the top of the champagne glass where her lips had gently rested. The pose was one that had obviously been well rehearsed. Vincent smiled to himself, yet afterwards he was certain that she had assumed he was smiling at her. At any rate, the very attractive woman flashed him a radiant smile in return. It took Vincent five minutes to wriggle through the crowded bar, but after a series of turns and twists, he reached the dock.

Meanwhile, a swarm of dockside drinkers steadily moved toward the swimming pool area while the boats in the waterway formed a semi-circle around Pegleg’s. The announcer’s voice boomed, Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a really big hand to our lovely contestants before we begin today’s contest. The sounds that followed were earsplitting.

Going to watch the contest? asked one of the young dockhands as he approached Vincent.

Not today. Vincent shook his head. Unfortunately, I have to leave early. I have plans this evening.

I’ll get your lines for you, Mr. Panachi, said the dockhand smiling.

The dockhand stepped from the dock onto the stern of a Cigarette Café Racer, across the stern of a Sea Ray Express Cruiser, then across the aft deck of a Fountain Lightning. Vincent followed the younger man’s footsteps while they traversed three more go-fasts before finally reaching Vincent’s boat, the beautiful thirty-eight foot Scarab Thunder.

The young dockhand quickly scrambled to the bow of the boat and manned the forward line. Vincent inserted the matching keys and fired up the powerful engines, one at a time. Full racing cams rumbled while cylinder head temperatures quickly rose. Vincent released the aft line and signaled the dockhand to do the same with the bowline. Afterwards, Vincent skillfully held the Scarab in place with differential power while he handed the young man a folded ten dollar bill. The dockhand stuffed the bill into his shorts and thanked Vincent with a nod, and then stepped onto the adjoining boat. Vincent gently eased the Scarab into the waterway. No sooner had the space become vacant, another go-fast gently slid into the spot.

Vincent carefully maneuvered the watercraft through the flotilla of pleasure boats until he was safely free from the danger of collision, then he glanced toward Pegleg’s. A bathing beauty was strutting around the perimeter of the swimming pool while loud wolf whistles and boisterous cheers demonstrated the crowd’s approval of her shapely figure. The woman glided across the concrete in five-inch heels that seductively hiked her buttocks high while the angle of her feet flexed her lengthy leg muscles as she walked. A thong bathing suit left little to the imagination, particularly from the rear view. Her muscled back sloped upward and only the sides of her large breasts overflowing from the restraint of the tiny nylon bikini top disturbed that perfect slope. The beauty swung her shoulder-length hair from side-to-side in rhythm with her every step while the crowd went wild. These women were not bimbos off the beach. They were seasoned professionals—exotic dancers enjoying a day of sun and fun, where the lucky winner would pick up over two thousand dollars in cash and prizes. Besides, there was no better way for them to see and to be seen. Aside from a shot at the cash prize, there were always the boys in the go-fasts. All things considered, each contestant became a winner.

Vincent watched the beauty parade a lap around the pool before he eased the engines’ transmissions into gear. The Scarab slowly idled away from the crowd and away from the noise of Pegleg’s and Shylock’s.

The blond seated at the lower bar had been watching Vincent the entire time. She observed that his movements were completely relaxed, and it was obvious to her that he was comfortable with who he was by the auspicious manner in which he handled himself. Naturally, her trained eye had not missed a trick—the Rolex watch on his wrist, which ironically matched hers, the two-carat diamond on his left ring finger, the ten dollar gold piece surrounded with diamonds that served as a money clip, and the Scarab Thunder speedboat.

This one was a prime catch, she mused, someone worth pursuing.

The woman caught the bartender’s eye and signaled him. Tony stopped in front of her seat as she leaned across the bar to be heard over the roar of the bikini contest next door.

Tony, I’ll have another glass of champagne, please. But, before you pour it you must tell me, who was that handsome gentleman seated across the bar?

His name is Vincent Panachi. He’s a local. Tony grabbed her glass and smiled.

Thank you. The blond returned Tony’s smile.

When Tony walked away the blond turned to search for Vincent’s Scarab, but the sleek speedboat had pulled out and was already in the distance. That’s him, she mumbled under her breath.

*     *     *

Across the Intracoastal Waterway directly west of Shylock’s stands a ten-story condominium whose large sliding glass doors overlook the drinking establishment. The penthouse apartment on the far left has a breathtaking southeast view that encompasses the beach area all the way south to Port Everglades. The condominium’s living room has a tinted protective film that prevents the blinding morning sun from glaring through the glass doors. It also averts any curious eyes, because the reflective film functions like a two-way mirror; one can see out, but not in.

Inside the condominium’s living room area were four agents of the Organized Crime Task Force who had set up shop there two months earlier. Along the sliding glass doors stood nearly a dozen 35 millimeter (mm) cameras mounted on aluminum tripods evenly spaced along the wall of glass. Some of the cameras protruded further into the living room than others because of the various lengths of their telescopic lenses which ranged in size from 200 mm to 600 mm, with the latter being nearly twelve inches long. A 600 mm lens can discern the writing on a pack of cigarettes from a distance while the less powerful lens will produce a larger, less detailed image. One of the cameras had a wide-angle lens attached that encompassed the entire waterfront area of Pegleg’s and Shylock’s. All cameras were trained on the waterway.

Today’s assignment, just as it had been for the past two months, was to photograph the go-fasts and their owners sometime during their stay at the waterfront bars. Every boat, along with its occupants, would be photographed. Once the agent manning the cameras finished a roll of thirty-five photographs, he would reload the camera and pass the exposed film along to the darkroom specialist. The specialist would develop the roll of film in one of the bedrooms that had been converted to a specially illuminated room for processing photographs. Within hours, the photographed subject’s image would be reproduced on photosensitive paper, and then categorized and filed by boat name into one of the many file cabinets banked alongside one wall.

The agent manning the cameras systematically moved from left to right down the row of cameras. After two months on the job, his movements were down to a science. His left hand made minute lateral adjustments to the camera with the 300 mm lens until the aim in the view finder was directly centered and focused upon the Scarab Thunder. The agent held his breath for a split second while his right index finger gently depressed the camera’s shutter switch. He smiled, then carefully backed away from the tripod and exclaimed, Got ya! A perfect image of Vincent Panachi’s face at the helm of the Scarab Thunder had been captured on film. Several hours later, the agents were all in agreement that the Scarab shot had been the best of the day.

*     *     *

SIX HOURS LATER

Vincent Panachi stood on the aft deck of the 112-foot Broward yacht and peered into the dark water below. The rhythmic vibration of the ship’s two huge diesel power plants gently massaged his feet, yet the vibration was not enough to disturb the effervescent flow of the rising bubbles in his champagne glass. The yacht had departed Pier 66 one hour earlier and was slowly making its way along the Intracoastal Waterway north through Ft. Lauderdale. It was a black tie affair that included sixty guests, more or less, most hailing from the northeast United States. The soiree was this year’s annual social gathering of the Vitale crime family, and its date could be predicated a year in advance because it was always held on Anthony Vitale’s birthday. Vincent leaned over the yacht’s massive transom and watched the phosphorescent trail of tiny luminous flecks left by the slow churning of the huge bronze propellers. As the flecks slowly blended into the dark waters Vincent mused that the past year must have been a very profitable one for the crime family. Last year’s yacht party had been thrown on a 90-footer, and this year’s yacht was twenty-two, absolutely gorgeous feet longer.

Vincent ran his finger along the inside of the buttoned collar on his pure silk dress shirt. A black butterfly bow tie stood perfectly centered along the neckline of the snow white shirt. His jet-black, Italian designed tuxedo was custom fit by the finest tailor in Ft. Lauderdale. The shoulders on the jacket hugged Vincent’s broad back and the jacket’s sleeves stopped exactly one inch from the shirt’s French cuffs. The jacket’s lapel tapered across Vincent’s forty-two inch chest and exposed three of five diamond studs that matched the cuff links. The remaining two were hidden beneath the jacket’s cummerbund. The matching trousers had an immaculate, knifelike crease that stopped precisely at the top of a pair of expensive Italian loafers and covered a pair of thirty dollar socks. A blood red pure silk handkerchief neatly tucked into the breast pocket of the tuxedo jacket accented his formal attire. The dark tuxedo made the moderate five-foot ten-inch, Vincent Panachi appear much taller. It also accentuated how handsome he was.

Vincent had been living in South Florida for so long that he had almost forgotten that these people were from his hometown in Newark, New Jersey. Yet they were quick to remind him of his roots, with their wisecrack comments shortly followed by abrupt slaps on his back. Their coarse New Jersey accents were even more pronounced than he had remembered.

The guest of honor at that evening’s gala was Anthony Vitale, affectionately referred to as the Old Man. Not so affectionately, Anthony Vitale had also been referred to for a great number of years as The Shark. He was the undisputed head of the Vitale crime family who had ruled Newark for more than four decades. It was understood that the Capos regularly siphoned off enough funds during the course of the year to finance the lavish annual party. The head of the crime family knew it, but acted as if he had never noticed the shortages during the respective cash deliveries. He let it slide because the money had been skimmed with good intentions and would be used to help boost the family’s morale. However, Anthony Vitale could have told you precisely how much was missing and from whom.

Anthony had made his bones in the early days by taking care of those individuals who had stolen from the crime family, and it had been those vicious collections that had earned him his nickname The Shark. His reputation had grown within certain circles so rapidly that it had become infamous among the underground economy of Newark. Those legendary days were once summarized by an older Capo appeasing Vincent’s curiosity when he had explained, Many a thief of the family tried to steal more chain from Anthony than he could swim with. Vincent had understood perfectly—thieves sleep with the fish!

Vincent’s father had also been a distinguished member of the Vitale crime family, and had risen through the ranks rapidly. Vito Panachi was still a very young man hustling the streets of Newark, New Jersey when he had become Tony the Shark’s right hand man. Vito had shown such promise for the family that Tony the Shark had personally taken him under his wing as his protégé. Vito Panachi was destined to be the crime family’s youngest Capo, the leader of a section of the family’s ruling territory. That was thirty years ago when the old man himself had been a Capo.

Unfortunately, Vincent’s father had taken a bullet meant for the shark during a hit attempt by a rival crime family. Vito had saved Anthony’s life, but had lost his own. Ever since that day Anthony had taken responsibility for the life and well being of Vito’s only son. The future for Vincent Panachi had been sealed.

Vincent was afforded every opportunity to further his education. He attended the finest schools and became polished. He also learned about the world outside the inner city of Newark, New Jersey. But, it had always been understood between mentor and protégé that Vincent would return and become part of the Vitale crime family. Even then the Shark was laying the groundwork for decades down the road.

Twenty-five years later the Shark was head of the crime family. It had been his destiny, his family heritage, and he had been expected to do better than his predecessor. Anthony had eventually expanded the family’s territory to include the Gold Coast of Florida. His particular business interest was in Ft. Lauderdale, and by his orders Vincent had been sent south to oversee the family’s financial interests.

That had been five years ago, but to Vincent it had seemed much longer. During the past years Vincent had flown once a month to Newark in a chartered Learjet to meet with Anthony Vitale. Anthony would playfully muss Vincent’s long but neatly trimmed hair while discussing future business strategies. Inevitably, during the course of their meetings, Anthony would query, And is there anyone special in my nephew’s love life?

Vincent’s eyes would avert the elderly gentleman’s when he replied, No, sir . . . not as yet. No doubt it was one of the old man’s favorite subjects. Vincent was in charge of delivering the proceeds from the family’s many businesses in and around Ft. Lauderdale, yet sometimes Anthony would ask the routine question even before he inquired about the millions that Vincent was personally delivering.

The faint sound of a band playing carried through the panes of glass that separated the Broward’s main salon from the aft deck while muffled voices of several dozen people talking at once blended with the music. Suddenly, the salon door opened and the music blared through the open doorway. Vincent casually turned to see who had joined him, and saw that it was one of the family’s most trusted Capos. The middle-aged man gently placed his hand on Vincent’s shoulder.

Vincent, what goes, huh? You don’t like the party?

Just grabbing a breath of fresh air, Vincent smiled as he replied.

Well, better make it quick because the old man wants to speak to you, the Capo announced while patting Vincent’s shoulder then walking away to return to the party.

Where is he? Vincent queried after he took a swallow from his champagne glass.

He’s downstairs in the master stateroom, the Capo replied over his shoulder as he turned reentering the main salon.

Vincent nodded his head in acknowledgement, but it had been a futile move. The Capo was already through the doorway. A minute later, Vincent followed.

The salon area was crowded, just as Shylock’s had been earlier that day. As soon as Vincent entered the lavish salon a white tuxedoed waiter, supporting a sterling silver tray full of crystal glasses brimmed with Dom Perignon, placed a fresh glass of bubbly in Vincent’s hand. The women in ultra-expensive designer gowns made an interesting contrast to the numerous identical penguin suits that most of the men had rented for the annual occasion.

Vincent held his champagne glass high to prevent it from being bumped while he slowly made his way across the main salon. The Broward was the most beautiful yacht Vincent had ever seen, and being a boater himself, he enjoyed the privilege of having been aboard several spectacular vessels. Shades of pale beige and maroon predominated throughout while the bulkheads were veneered with white oak that contrasted against peach carpeting. Along the port side a spacious C-shaped divan curved around two small tables. Opposite, a round card table with four chairs nestled in the corner. Further forward, a glass topped dining table provided seating for a dinner party of eight. Across from that, along the starboard side, was a white oak bar with a brass trimmed ecru marble top. As Vincent moved through the jubilant crowd, his eyes wondered toward a woman in a strikingly beautiful, ruby red dress. Straight blond hair cascaded the length of her back and stopped alluringly short of the roundness of her hips. Vincent knew a little something about women’s dresses, or at least enough to recognize a Halston original when he saw one, and that the designer’s dress most certainly cost close to two thousand dollars. The woman was leaning against the bar in a position that prevented Vincent from seeing with whom she was talking. After Vincent moved forward another five feet he was able to identify the mystery man. The stranger in the red dress was talking to Slick Nick, a transplanted New Jersey con man who had risen through the crime family’s ranks enough to manage a restaurant the family owned in nearby Boca Raton.

As Vincent approached the couple, Slick Nick caught Vincent’s eye and signaled for him to join them. Had it been only Slick Nick standing there, Vincent would have begged off by saying, I’m on the way to see someone . . . we’ll talk later. Of course later would have never come, because Vincent did not particularly care for Slick Nick. However, the woman in the red dress had captured Vincent’s attention, and he was curious to see what she looked like without being so gauche as to turn around and gawk at her after passing by.

Vincent joined them and extended his hand to shake Nick’s.

Nick, good to see you.

Yeah, same to you.

Vincent caught a quick glimpse of the woman. To his surprise, the woman standing before him was the attractive blond Vincent had seen earlier that afternoon at Shylock’s.

Vincent Panachi, say ‘Hello’ to Jennifer Swords, Nick said as he shifted his eyes toward the woman.

Nice to meet you, Vincent, Jennifer replied as she extended her hand to him.

The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Swords. Vincent smiled while their eyes locked into a lengthy stare. Vincent felt the spark in her gaze and the blond returned his smile. Suddenly, conversation came easily.

Jennifer had plenty to smile about, because she had put up with Slick Nick’s pawing and crude behavior for weeks while patiently waiting for just this moment. Meeting Vincent Panachi was NOT a chance happening.

CHAPTER TWO

J ennifer Swords stood naked before a full-length mirror and carefully critiqued her body. The master bedroom of her ocean front condominium had a dressing room with a three-sided mirror, similar to those found in the shops where she had frequently made expensive purchases. The angled mirrors allowed Jennifer to view herself from three different sides at once—a frontal view along with either quarter side. Her skin was still rosy from a lengthy steaming hot shower.

Jennifer was in her early thirties, but had a body that could compete with any twenty-one year old. Of course, Jennifer had an unfair advantage. She had cheated father time by going under the knife each time her body had begun to show the telltale signs of aging. It hadn’t begun that way, but once Jennifer had been introduced to the world of cosmetic surgery she found access into a world she had long dreamed of, the life she had always imagined that only the beautiful people experienced.

Almost overnight she had been transformed from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan. With the exception of one operation, all of her numerous cosmetic alterations had been performed by the hands of Dr. Mitchell Swords. Now, it was as if the woman who once was had never existed. If it were possible for the past and present Jennifer to stand along side one another, one would swear that they were two completely different people. The alter ego inside that voluptuous body remembered all too well who she was and where she had come from. Jennifer Swords had not always been Jennifer Swords. Before she moved to Ft. Lauderdale from a small town near the Jersey shore, she had been Marie Castellano, the daughter of full-blooded Italian parents. Marie had always favored her father’s side of the family. She had his dark eyes and hair, and unfortunately, a rather large, hook nose. During Marie’s puberty it had become her greatest complex, but not her sole obsession.

In Marie’s eyes, psychoanalysis was a luxury which only rich people could indulge. Nonetheless, she certainly could have profited from extensive counseling during those painful years, but treatment had not been an option. Instead, Marie withdrew further into herself while her life’s wish list grew. Like all teenagers who experience the pain of growing up, Marie was the person most critical of her own physical imperfections.

Magazine advertisements featuring beautiful women with perfectly sloping noses seemed to attract more attention to her imperfections. As the obsession over her own profile grew she began a desperate search for alternative solutions. It had been during those solitary moments of soul searching that Marie discovered the sophistication incorporated in photographs of jewelry, fur coats and designer dresses.

Soon an idea formed. Money would cure all of her problems. With money she could afford all of the luxuries she had yearned for in those magazine advertisements. But, just as psychological treatment was expensive, so were the finer things in life that Marie now viewed as a solution. Every night she would lay in bed and ponder a solution until the answer came to her. Late one evening, Marie ran across an advertisement for career nurses.

The full-page color advertisement had portrayed young nurses performing various duties. By now Marie had become very adept at scrutinizing every detail of a photograph. While she scanned the scenes of nurses one thing became obvious in each photograph. No matter where the nurses were or what they were doing, doctors—doctors that made tremendous amounts of money—surrounded them. Later that evening she formed a plan. Marie would change her name, become a nurse, marry a doctor, then live the life of luxury she was certain was her destiny.

Marie Castellano remained steadfast and focused during the pursuit of her goals. Marie graduated with honors in the top five percent of nursing school, and then left New Jersey the next day by Greyhound bus bound for Florida’s Gold Coast. The thousand-mile bus ride provided plenty of time for Marie to search her soul. Her decision had been made years before, but now the reality was in motion. By the time the bus arrived in Ft. Lauderdale, she was no longer Marie. Her new identity was to be Jennifer, and she would not use her last name socially. It would have been impossible for her not to use her real last name while she sought employment. Nevertheless, her name change from Marie to Jennifer was enough to satisfy her peace of mind.

Jennifer it was and she immediately found employment at a Ft. Lauderdale hospital and was able to get a small furnished apartment nearby. She began work immediately, and that was when she met Dr. Mitchell Swords, a renowned plastic surgeon.

Dr. Swords was introverted and shy. He was an early to bed, early to rise type who had developed a very successful practice as a plastic surgeon in Ft. Lauderdale and Boca Raton. His routine, however, hampered his ability to socialize; it earned him a reputation as a workaholic and something less than a lady’s man.

Jennifer sensed Dr. Swords’ behavior right away and viewed him as easy prey. The two were married within three months after meeting, and in retrospect there had been individuals close to Dr. Swords that felt he had temporarily taken leave of his senses. After that blissful union, Marie Castellano legally became Jennifer Swords. Suddenly the confused little girl from New Jersey was now the wife of a prominent doctor, and had every opportunity that she had ever dreamt of.

Within a matter of weeks the cosmetic transformations had taken place. After nine hours of surgery Dr. Swords had completed the rhinoplasty correcting Jennifer’s nose. Next, Jennifer’s jagged teeth were capped with white porcelain, and the contact lenses that replaced her glasses dramatically changed the color of her eyes from dark-brown to sea-blue. Her mousy brown hair became bleached blond while she had acrylic fingernails applied at the same time. Finally, electrolysis removed the dark shadow above her upper lip.

Dr. Swords either performed or coordinated all of her cosmetic improvements, and the end result was a wife as pretty as any he had ever imagined. Even Jennifer could not believe the transformation. But, there was one cosmetic addition that Jennifer had wanted badly.

Ft. Lauderdale is full of bathing beauties with perfectly shaped, surgically enhanced breasts. Jennifer utilized her professional connections to research which doctor was renowned to be the best at breast enhancement surgery, and then booked a consultation appointment. Jennifer had the surgery performed while her husband was out of town at a two-day convention and the result was stunning. Within one afternoon, Jennifer’s chest size increased from a 32B to a voluptuous 36D.

When Dr. Swords returned from his trip Jennifer was seductively waiting in their bedroom to surprise him. What a surprise it had been. Dr. Swords entered the dimly lit bedroom and found Jennifer sitting cross-legged on their king-size bed, clad only in a sheer silk negligee. The cool sensation of the thin, transparent fabric lightly brushing her nipples had created small hard protuberances. The firm roundness of her breasts angled her nipples upward causing the near nothing of a negligee to limply drape. For a split moment Dr. Swords’ mouth hung agape at the sight of this beautiful woman. Until now, any woman that had looked that sexy would not have given Dr. Swords the time of day, much less a pleasurable evening he would never forget.

The meek and mild mannered surgeon could not get enough sex. They made love once a day, but his appetite for sex became insatiable. During the following weeks they engaged in sexual intercourse with such frequency that it became an obsession for the doctor.

Jennifer’s lifestyle changed drastically. Her voluptuous figure required a complete new wardrobe which required a substantial amount of time spent shopping. Jennifer patiently waited for an evening when her husband had experienced a particularly throbbing orgasm before she unveiled her dilemma. Dr. Swords did not hesitate before he told her to quit her job and go shopping.

Jennifer did not bother with the customary two weeks’ notice. She quit her job as a nurse the following day. Full days were spent shopping and within two weeks Jennifer ran up nearly twenty-five thousand dollars on Dr. Swords’ Gold American Express card. Even though she had quickly become a clotheshorse, the transformation had been worthwhile to the doctor. If there had been any consolation for the doctor it was that Jennifer was now stunningly gorgeous. A new, improved Jennifer Swords emerged.

Within a short period of time the days at the mall were replaced by long lunches at a nearby country club where Jennifer befriended several wealthy socialites—The Ft. Lauderdale-style wealth, where many are filthy rich beyond money. It had not taken Jennifer many luncheons to realize that she was nothing more than the wife of a high-salaried worker; a commoner who’s parvenu had been discovered. In spite of her newfound exterior beauty, Jennifer lacked the cultural taste and social grace of her socialite companions.

Desire flared once again and Jennifer Swords became a quick study. She studied the women daily, particularly those who were older and more sophisticated. They talked candidly about their lives, their husbands, and their husbands’ businesses. Jennifer learned many things. Unfortunately, one of them was that she was only pacified in her marriage, not satisfied. This marked the beginning of the end for Dr. Mitchell Swords.

Soon tremendous arguments began to take place between Jennifer and Dr. Swords, until eighteen months after their wedding Jennifer and Dr. Swords were divorced. The day her divorce became final some of Jennifer’s divorced, middle-aged, and very wealthy socialite friends threw her a lavish party at the country club. The occasion was meant to launch the old Jennifer into her new and exciting single life, and it worked. What emerged from that champagne-drinking soiree was the NEW Jennifer Swords.

Men that were close friends of her socialite friends were thrust upon her nearly daily. Most were handsome but older gentlemen, while all were blue-blooded aristocrats funded by an abundance of inherited wealth. It was the beginning of two years spent living the high life. Even so, the high life lacked things that were significantly important to Jennifer. She had been living off of her generous four hundred thousand dollar divorce settlement during that two-year period. To the privileged minority of ultra-wealthy persons, that figure represents the absolute minimum required to exist during a couple of years on the go.

Jennifer had considered her extravagant expenditures as an investment, and the eventual return on her investment was to catch an aristocratic husband. Available men of that caliber were regularly pursued by a great number of women, and never married unless the female was of equal or greater net worth than their own. As the adage goes among the ultra-rich, There are never marriages; only mergers. Jennifer had received many wonderful gifts from her suitors that demonstrated their appreciation for her companionship, but there had never been a proposal of marriage.

Jennifer’s savings had been substantially reduced to approximately one hundred and fifty thousand dollars before reality set in. She would never catch one of the gentlemen’s gentlemen. Jennifer realized that she was nothing more than an expensive vase to these men, something to be enjoyed while on display for others to see. She succumbed to the fact that she would have to lower her standards for a potential catch in order to achieve her goals. She still desired someone with a lot of money, but it had to be someone who would be in awe of her new found sophistication; someone who viewed her as she had viewed those ultra-wealthy men that had so patiently taught her the ways of the world.

Money played a large part in her decisions, but that wasn’t all she had to consider for future suitors. There had been another area lacking during Jennifer’s flings with the wealthy older gentlemen. Sex. She realized that she would have to satisfy her uncontrollable sexual desires before she could possibly become engaged in the multiple head games planned for potential suitors. Finally, it was time for a major change in her life. It was common knowledge that the players hung out at the many waterfront bars along Ft. Lauderdale’s Intracoastal Waterway, and she decided that this would be the area where she would concentrate her pursuit for a worthy catch.

Jennifer moved to a high-rise condominium on the beach centered on the sun and fun activities in Ft. Lauderdale, and then splurged another ten thousand dollars furnishing the two-bedroom condo. Days later she invested another thousand dollars at a made-to-order bikini shop, and the result was a sexual bombshell.