“Frankie!” I hadn’t heard his voice in two weeks.

“Hi, baby. I’m out.”

“Oh, Frankie, are you all right?” I asked, concerned.

“Of course.‘A horse is a horse, of course, of course. . . .’ I need to see you, baby. Can you get here faster than a speeding bullet?”

“Let’s not talk about bullets, Frankie.” The victim of The Sundowner shooting still remained on the critical list, but it looked as though he was going to live. “I can be there on the eight a.m. plane.”

“Lots of things for me to do, so hop in a cab to 502,” he said as though he were reciting a poem. 502 was Frankie’s apartment on East 26th Street.

My mother and father had been ecstatic to have me home, but they knew I’d fly off again soon. They worried about me constantly. They didn’t know about the shooting, but they knew the dangers for a young girl alone in New York. Like most parents, they wanted to cloak me in protection.

After hearing from Frankie I was so relieved. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking about seeing him. Getting up extra early, I spent a long time in front of the mirror, making sure my makeup was perfect before getting on the plane.

Exiting the cab in front of Frankie’s building, I bumped into an old man shuffling his feet, inching his cane along the sidewalk.

“Watch where you’re going, stupid broad,” he sneered.

Tin cans and spilled garbage littered the curb. A derelict with skin the color of bruised parchment huddled in a doorway, speaking grandly to the sky. Ah, New York. It was good to be back.

The elevator was broken again, forcing me to walk the five flights lugging my bags. If I had been any more out of breath, I’d have been dead. In the lightless hallway a broken TV leaned against the wall. I could smell a lingering odor of deli food as I turned the key and pushed open the door.

Inside, the sparsely furnished room depressed me. White plaster showed through the dirt-streaked yellow paint on the ceiling. No plants. No signs of life. Dingy. Dark. If Frankie had to disappear in a hurry, he’d have no problem. Or maybe this was the place he would disappear to.

Minutes turned into hours. I waited. I busied myself cleaning up the diminutive place, emptying ashtrays loaded with stale cigarettes and hanging up clothes that had been haphazardly strewn around the room. He finally arrived, looking pale and exhausted. No need for words. His lengthy hug told me how much he’d missed me. But then he became distant.

“Where were you, Frankie?”

“I had to do somethin’.”

“Something? That’s all you can say? Couldn’t you at least call? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Weren’t you anxious to see—”

“Georgie Girl, I couldn’t call. Please, don’t question me, okay?”

Hurt and disappointed, I gnawed like a dog on a bone. “I don’t understand why you’re always so secretive. Why can’t you—”

“Drop it,” he said in a tone that stopped me cold.

Obviously on edge about something, he walked out of the room. He’d never spoken to me with this tone before. I watched his reflection in the bedroom mirror as he took a gun from inside his jacket and placed it in a drawer.

“C’mon,” he said, “I wanna take you somewhere.”

He was aware of his cranky attitude and was making an effort to change his mood. I had a sinking sensation in my stomach, never having seen him with a gun before. I thought I knew something about his secret life, but the reality of this sight made me aware of how much I didn’t know.

We walked to Saks Fifth Avenue, where he bought me an outfit he had seen in the window and said I must have. I didn’t argue. Shopping was my favorite activity. But this time was different. Frankie didn’t seem to be on the same planet as me. As much as he smiled, I could tell he was deeply troubled.

“You’re not going to believe what those rat bastards did to the club,” he said in a resentful tone as we got to the street.

“What did they do?”

“You’ll see,” he answered, extending his arm to hail a cab.

As we walked up the dimly lit stairs to the club, I didn’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t what I saw, that’s for sure. My mouth hung open as I scanned the room. I still had a lot to learn about cops. They had taken the liquor and most of the tables and chairs, probably to furnish their basements, but what they had left was completely destroyed. They’d used an ax to tear down the bar. Shattered glass lay strewn from the smashed cigarette machine and the jukebox. The few remaining bar stools were slashed, stuffing covering the floor like a blanket of snow. The drapery material was pulled from the walls, exposing the decaying brick. Total destruction. I glanced at Frankie’s disgusted face. He looked so lost and defeated.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, feeling sick as my eyes focused on the large brown spot on the floor.

“I guess I’ll just do . . . what I do.”

“What is it that you do, Frankie?”

“Don’t start that, Georgie Girl. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“No, Frankie, I need some answers. I’m tired of the guessing games. You need to let me into your life or this relationship is going to die.”

He stared at me in silence for a long time before he spoke.

“There ain’t no easy way t’say this, so I’ll try an’ give it t’you straight. Y’know what I was doin’ when you were flying here from Rochester? I was pullin’ a robbery! And I came damn close to killin’ a guy. Is that the kind of man you want to spend the rest of your life with, Georgie Girl? Even if you think it is, you deserve better than me. I got nothin’ to offer you, honey. I’m not proud of who I am, but these pricks leave me no choice. None of ’em will let me make an honest buck!”

I didn’t care; I was too much in love at this point to shut down my feelings. He’ll get over this. Everything will be like it was before.

Later that night, the line outside the Copacabana was unusually long. Spotted by the doorman, we were led to a side entrance and through the kitchen to a waiting table. Waiters respectfully acknowledged Frankie as they hurried past us with heavy trays. Frankie discreetly stuck a $50 bill in the doorman’s palm and the man disappeared. Jerry Vale joined our table for a few minutes before he went on.

“Sing my girl’s favorite song, Jerr,” Frankie instructed as Jerry was being announced.

For a short time the old Frankie was present, but the more Scotch we consumed the more distant he became. I hoped he would soon return to his normal self.

Susie Q had gone to see Ralph where he was stationed in California after the shooting. They eloped while she was there and she never returned to New York. Linda Bird had been seeing some rich guy and stayed at his place through all the turmoil. She decided she liked being taken care of and moved in with him permanently. I was on my own. Everything had changed so drastically.

I still kept the apartment, and I spent most of my time with Frankie. But Frankie was different. The Sundowner was now gone, along with the “good-time Charlie” with whom I’d fallen in love. Frankie looked at life from a different perspective now. Facing the reality of his life, he battled with himself constantly. He said I had a bright future ahead of me and he wanted me to taste all the good things that were surely in store for me.

Thinking back, it took a lot of strength on his part to do what he thought was honorable. But I didn’t see it then. I thought that I was the one who wasn’t good enough. I didn’t understand that he was protecting me from a life that was too dark. He constantly reminded me that he was no good for me.

We still laughed and did silly things, like go to the top of the Empire State Building and fall into hysterics when I tried to talk him into bonking old ladies on the top of their heads with quarters.

“If we bonk old ladies from here, baby, those rat bastards will make a murder charge stick. We’d better hang with bonking from the Ferris wheel.”

When he’d catch himself giving in to his heart, he’d pull back. I could feel him distance himself from me, yet I sensed that behind the facade he really loved me. Feeling this way, I was reluctant to let go.

After a few months of mental torture I decided to return to Rochester, hoping Frankie would miss me and ask me to come back.

“Frankie, I’m going home,” I blurted out, hoping to get some sort of positive reaction.

He stared at me in mournful silence. It was what he ultimately wanted, but he couldn’t bring himself to force the issue.

“I guess we both knew this day was comin’,” he finally said.

Tears streaked both of our faces as we embraced.

“I do love you, Georgie Girl,” he said, holding me firmly with his head resting against mine.

“I know,” I answered, my heart breaking. “But I need all of you, Frankie.”

The following day he borrowed his cousin’s car and drove me to the airport. Hanging on desperately to our final minutes together, I waited for the very last passenger to board the plane. My blood pumped hard when the announcement came.

“This is the final boarding call for flight number sixty-seven to Rochester.”

Trying to exhibit strength, Frankie squeezed my hand and encouraged me to pick up life where I had left it before I met him. Fighting tears, we kissed one last time before I walked down the long, narrow walkway. I turned back for a final time before disappearing into the plane. The sight of his face pierced my heart and I could no longer hold back my tears.

“See ya when I see ya, baby,” he said, forcing a smile.

New York City was on another planet. Rochester was like a recurring nightmare. Nothing had changed. Eight months had passed since the rape, yet it was as if it had happened yesterday in the minds of the townspeople. I was heartbroken over my shattered love affair. To make matters worse, I had to cope with the simple minds of the gossips. My depression became severe.

Upon walking into Woods Drug Store I noticed people staring at me, whispering. When they saw me looking they got quiet. I knew the difference between the stares of admiration and the gossiping stares. These were the vicious kind. People who smiled to my face and then danced around the flames while they burned me at the stake in the village square.

My sister, Sharon, was barely coping with all the rumors that had followed the rape. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I sensed that she held me responsible for what she’d had to face.

Even through all the ugliness, Sharon loved this town. If her thoughts ever strayed beyond the boundaries of home, they only reinforced the feeling that she wanted to lie within them. But the walls that were so comforting to her were the same walls I desperately needed to escape.

I was once again subjected to the same things I had defended myself from since childhood, only now I was beginning to convince myself that there might be some truth to these rumors. I wasn’t the pure, innocent child I had been when they first had such cruel things to say. Maybe they were right. Maybe that was why Frankie didn’t want me. Maybe no one ever would. Maybe I wasn’t good enough anymore.

I continued to seek friendship in the city, where I was accepted, away from the whispers of a small town. The dark people of the underworld had become my friends because they opened the door—and allowed me entry. But even they weren’t helping my depression.

I stopped eating and began sleeping a lot. Facing the long days was almost intolerable. I thought of ways to end my life, but that would only make them the winners, wouldn’t it? I wrote letters to Tom describing the anxiety of what I was experiencing. He wrote back, professing his love and apologizing for not being there to comfort me. Nothing he could say would cheer me up. My mother and father thought I might be suicidal. They watched me sink rapidly into a deep depression. Although they tried the best they could to help, nothing worked.

On a gray Saturday morning in December the doorbell rang, awakening me from a heavy sleep. I looked at the clock next to my bed. It was one p.m. Still hungover from a late night at the Living Room, I stumbled down the stairs in my flannel nightgown. Rubbing the sleep from my puffy eyes I opened the door. To my amazement, Tom was standing on the other side, handsomely dressed in his army uniform.

The war hadn’t hardened his boyish face. His normally thick black hair that had clung to his head in soft waves was now short, accentuating his perfect features.

“Tom? What are you doing home?” I stood there in shock, not believing what I was seeing.

“I came home to marry you and take you away from all this.”

“What? I don’t understand. How did you—”

“Are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here and freeze my ass off?”

Scooping me up in his muscular arms, he kissed me passionately. Still stunned, I didn’t quite know how to respond, but I felt uncommonly safe and secure in his arms. I’d forgotten how handsome he was. His soft doe eyes spoke volumes about his feelings.

“Marry me, Georgia,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes.

“Uh . . . when?” Panicked, I looked away, my heart racing with mixed emotions. I didn’t think I loved him. How could I? I loved Frankie. But Frankie doesn’t want me. Will anyone ever want me?

“Well, I’ve only got two weeks.”

“I . . . It’s so—”

“Just say yes,” he said, not understanding my hesitation. He knew nothing about my real life in New York. I needed to talk to Frankie. I had to hear him say that he didn’t want me. I couldn’t give Tom an answer without knowing for sure.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Georgia,” he said, pulling me back into his arms. “I want to protect you and love you, honey. We were going to get married anyway after I got home, so why not now?”

“Just give me a day to think about this.”

Tom didn’t detect anything strange about my reaction. He explained that he had shown my letters to his commanding officer and he had been given a compassionate leave. I hadn’t realized just how depressed I’d become, but according to Tom, his superiors thought my mental condition was serious enough to grant him a leave.

That night I called Frankie. We still talked frequently, but his lifestyle hadn’t changed. A future with him didn’t look promising, but I still hadn’t lost hope.

“Hi, Frankie,” I said, not sure how to begin.

“Hi, baby.”

“Frankie, Tom’s home.”

“Did he get shot?”

“No. He came home to . . . to marry me.”

Moments passed before he spoke. All I could hear was the distant wail of sirens from the city street.

Finally he said, “Well . . . maybe it’s for the best, baby.”

We both got quiet. I imagined Frankie looking out his window, listening as the December wind funneled icily up the canyon of buildings. Through the silence I could almost feel the hollow sadness that filled his heart. I lay on my bed, staring at our picture from the evening at the Copacabana and quietly wondering why it had all fallen apart.

“Frankie, do you love me?”

“Baby . . . I love you more than I ever loved anybody. That’s not true—I never was in love till I met you, but Georgie Girl, what kind of life can you have with me? I’ve never been able to explain it to you right, ’cause there’s so many things I can’t talk about, but you gotta just trust me on this, okay? Marry him, honey. Have kids, be happy. I’ll always love you. What we have together can never be taken away.”

“Frankie, tell me something—truthfully. Does it have anything to do with my not being a virgin when we met?”

“C’mon, Georgie Girl, will you stop that? It’s got nothin’ to do with the way I feel about us. Those people in that town of yours really got your head screwed up. It’s about what you deserve out of life—and I’m sure as hell not it. You can’t see it now, honey, but someday you’ll understand. It hurts me just as bad to let you go, but I gotta do it.”

“I don’t get it, Frankie. How can you tell me to get married if you say you love me? There has to be another reason.”

“It’s not because I don’t love you, baby; it’s because I do. Can’t you see that?” he said, sounding melancholy. “You’re making it very hard for me, Georgie Girl. All I want is for you to be happy.”

Four days later, Tom and I were married by a justice of the peace. We drove to a honeymoon resort in the Poconos. Set in a romantic, woodsy atmosphere tailored for honeymooners, the rooms all had heart-shaped bathtubs and a bottle of cheap champagne.

Everywhere I looked I saw recently married couples in love. They depressed me. Watching them together made me realize how I’d gotten married for all the wrong reasons. I loved Tom, but not the way I once thought I had. Grateful for the cheap champagne, I made it through the week and resigned myself to making the best of it. Maybe it would get better.

When we returned from the Poconos, my mother and father had planned the big wedding. Amazing how they pulled it together in such a short time. We got married again in a church with all the trimmings. The reception was at Braemar Country Club, the place Mom and Dad had been running. My mother did all the cooking. She was used to putting on large parties. With the help of all my aunts, it came off beautifully.

Both my mother and father were happy about the marriage. They had watched me sink deeper and deeper into depression and thought this was the answer to snapping me out of it.

Two days after the second wedding, Tom returned to Vietnam. One month after he left, I discovered that I was pregnant. Just what I needed. The gossips had a field day.

“Sammy, I’m okay, really; you don’t need to buy me food. Besides, I’m too fat already!”

“Ah, shut up. Break out the cannolis and put the coffee on. You got this place lookin’ like it belongs in a magazine,” he said, eyeing my new, ultramodern furniture.

Since I could no longer spend my money on clothes, I emptied my account on an apartment, furniture, and a new car. When the money stopped coming in, I relied on the $122 a month the government allotted for military wives.

“Why don’t you go into the decoratin’ business? You got an eye for it, kid,” Sammy said, touching one of the several stands of hanging crystal balls that separated the brightly furnished living room from the dining area.

“What I’d like to do someday is go to college, Sammy. Really get a good education.”

He took a sip of coffee. “Ah, whatta ya need that for? You got street smarts. You can’t buy that kind of education. Besides, if you get too book smart, you won’t want nothin’ to do with us guys anymore. You don’t need to be smart for your modeling, just beautiful, and you ain’t got a problem in that department,” he said, setting his coffee cup down on the glass table.

“I don’t have a problem, Sam, not ‘ain’t.’ ”

“See what I mean? You get educated, and before you know it, I won’t understand a damn thing you’re sayin’.”

“Well, Sam, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said, looking down at my protruding stomach.

“It’s gonna be a girl, I can feel it,” he said, gently placing his hand on my belly.

“I think so, too.”

“God help me if she takes after her mother. I got enough problems just watchin’ out for you. The last thing I need is two of you.” He paused and pressed his hand over mine. Staring at me with his intense eyes, he gently asked, “Are you happy, kid?”

No, I wasn’t happy. I was miserable. Stuck in a boring life in a boring city. I hated Rochester. Now that I knew there was more, I couldn’t see living this existence forever.

The phone rang before I could answer him, saving me from a lie. Evidently Sammy had told someone where he’d be; the call was for him. While Sam was on the phone I busied myself putting the groceries away and thought about the talk I had with Tom on our honeymoon. His plan was to go back to Kodak and work in their factory.

The thought of being stuck in Rochester for the rest of my life depressed me, and the news of my pregnancy put the lid on my coffin. There was no escape.

After Sam hung up, his mood became serious. “I want you to do me a favor, kid.”

“Sure, Sam, what do you need?”

“You go to Nicky’s place a lot, don’t you?”

Nicky owned the Overlook, a bar and restaurant next door to my apartment complex. It was another of the many Mob hangouts in the outer areas of the city.

“Well, yeah, it’s right next door. Great hamburgers. I have lunch there frequently, why?”

“You ever see Tommy DiDio there?”

Tommy DiDio was one of Valenti’s boys, the current boss of the Rochester syndicate.

“Once in a while. He’s usually there at night, though. I’ve seen him there a few times when I’ve run in to pick up an order. They have great baked ziti, too; ever try it?”

He ignored the question. Pulling back the sheer pale yellow curtains, he gazed out my picture window. “You have a perfect view of the Overlook from here.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some pretty nasty fights from that window a few times.”

“If you happen to see DiDio pull in, casually walk over there and keep your eyes an’ ears open. I want to know who he’s meetin’ with, and if you can get close enough without being conspicuous, find out what they’re talkin’ about.”

“Conspicuous? That’s a good word.”

“This is serious, Georgia. I need a little help here.”

Sammy had never asked a favor like this before, so I knew it had to be important, but I felt uneasy about it.

“That guy gives me the creeps, Sammy. I hate the way he looks at me with that demented glare. Just the sight of him makes me go cold inside. He looks like the type of man that could stab his own mother and watch a football game while she bled to death. I avoid him, and he knows it. He might get suspicious if I suddenly sit near him, and besides, how do I not look conspicuous with this stomach?”

“What’d I just get through sayin’, kid? You got street smarts—you’ll handle it. Georgia . . . it’s important.”

Three days later I spotted Tommy DiDio’s car in the parking lot of the Overlook. I waddled over and sat at a table as close to the bar as I could get. I ordered a double cheeseburger, French fries, and onion rings. To top it off, I had a chocolate milk shake that Nicky threw in on the house. It was so thick I could feel my face turn purple as I tried to sip it through the straw. I finally gave up and used a spoon. I still had a few months to go and I’d already gained close to forty pounds. Nicky watched with amusement as I eagerly stuffed myself. My appetite was enormous—so was I.

I got only fragments of the conversation, but apparently they were the key words Sammy needed to hear. Something about Frank Valenti and the boys in Utica, and something about money that wasn’t accounted for. None of it made any sense to me, but when I repeated it to Sammy he didn’t look happy. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it me. It contained five crisp $100 bills.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Buy somethin’ for the kid, or put it away for the schoolin’ you never got.”

He kissed my forehead and walked out the door.

Everyone thought she was beautiful. I thought she looked like Mr. Magoo. But she did get cuter. Her full head of pitch-black hair fell out and grew back in platinum blond, but her eyebrows and thick, long lashes remained black. It was the oddest thing. Within a month’s time she became strikingly beautiful.

Because I was a child myself, the reality of motherhood didn’t come as naturally as it would have if I were more mature. But as Toni grew, so did my motherly instincts. Children have a way of penetrating your heart, ready or not.

Even with the miracle of a child, I still felt trapped and robbed of my youth. I struggled with my selfish thoughts, but so much of the life I’d envisioned had been painfully lost. I had missed out on the publicity tours that went along with the title of Kodak’s Summer Girl. By the time the poster came out I was so fat that I could stand directly next to the cutout and no one could recognize me. Everyone said I had that radiant glow that expectant mothers get, but the truth was, I was a tub. It really didn’t bother me—I actually loved being pregnant.

Marriage was another story. I wasn’t adjusting well to the blandness of routine. The only thing I liked about being married was the amount of safety it provided from the advances of men. Not that I couldn’t handle them; it just got old.

I started back to work six days after Toni’s birth. Since I was still a bit heavy, they shot me only from the shoulders up, but it didn’t take long before I was working as much as I had before my pregnancy. Toni worked, too. Kodak loved to take mother-and-baby photos. We shot department store ads and a number of other assignments together. In a flash, Toni became Rochester’s most photographed child.

Two months after Toni’s birth, I got a booking in New York City. I’d been looking forward to escaping Rochester and tasting New York once again, especially at this time of year. I loved 5th Avenue at Christmastime: the Santas ringing their bells on every corner, the store windows so beautifully dressed with holiday decor. It put me in the spirit.

While I was away,Tom decided to visit his brother, who lived out of town. Toni wasn’t a problem—my mother was more than willing to take her while I worked. The problem was tearing Toni away from my mother once she got her hands on her!

I happened to mention the job to Sammy G over lunch at a diner near my apartment. Sam seemed distant; he was bothered by something. He tried to look interested.

“Really,” he said, looking gloomily over his coffee cup at the rows of snow-crusted cars parked outside the diner. Turning back to me, he said with a little more enthusiasm, “This may be good timing. You could do something for me while you’re there, Georgia. Is it possible for you to leave a day earlier?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not,” I answered.

“Good. I’ll set up a meeting. I can’t discuss anything on the phone. You’ll need to personally sit down with these guys and deliver a message. I’ll make your reservations and arrange to have you picked up at the airport.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I can have the studio take care of that.”

“I said I’d do it,” he retorted with authority. “Georgia, this is heavy information I’m trusting you with. No one—and I mean no one—is to know about this, you understand? As far as anyone knows you’re going to New York to work. Trust no one.”

“Of course I understand. Why would you even question that?”

“If word about this gets out, they’ll be dredging my body out of the Genesee River. I’m trusting you with my life here—”

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry,” I assured.

Not many women were allowed in this world, and it gave me a sort of sick fascination to be trusted at this level. In some strange way I felt connected to fear, but the thought never crossed my mind that I might be in any kind of danger. I was too engrossed in the intrigue.

“Hello. I’m Salvatore Reale,” he said with no expression.

“I’m—”

“I already know who you are,” he said in a deep, raspy voice.

With the tinted windows and his dark sunglasses, I couldn’t really see his eyes. We sat silently as he studied me. I found his shadowed gaze unsettling.

“Were you ever called Georgie Girl?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, when I lived here,” I answered.

“Didn’t you work at the Sundowner on 23rd Street?”

“Yes . . .”

“Yeah, right, you’re Frank Conti’s girl. Never forget a face.”

“Was—I’m married now,” I answered.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s coming back; you’re the girl that saved that Harlem slimeball from getting his due. He got it anyway; didn’t matter,” he said, disguising a smile.

“What happened to him?”

“He passed away in his sleep one night from natural causes. His heart stopped beating when two men slipped into his room and stuck knives into it,” he answered without a hint of compassion. “But I remember the talk about your driving that night. You’re regarded as a pretty good wheelman.”

“I am? Well, I don’t do that for a living,” I replied, still not feeling at ease.

“You oughta think about it then,” he answered, searching my face for a receptive glint. He must have seen the thought take shape in my eyes, but I didn’t want to endorse it.

“Where’re we going?” I asked.

“You’ll find out when we get there,” he answered with a perfectly straight face. Asking no more questions, I transferred my gaze straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield, wondering what dark and tangled path lay ahead as the limousine inched silently forward in the congested traffic.

The sleek stretch limo crawled to a stop a block away from our destination, an Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn. Four men waited in a quiet corner in the rear of the dining area. It wasn’t as fancy a place as I’d expected, but more of a neighborhood hangout.

The men eyed me suspiciously as Salvatore and I approached. I remembered seeing the gray-haired man with the cold, beady eyes before on one of my outings with Frankie, but I thought it wise not to make reference to it. I didn’t know his name, but I knew he was important. The heavyset guy dressed in a dark green pullover sweater eyed me nonchalantly while poking at his gums with a toothpick. The place wasn’t brightly lit, but the other two guys wore dark sunglasses and no expressions. I couldn’t get an immediate sense of them.

Salvatore Reale introduced me as Georgie Girl, Frank Conti’s ex-girlfriend. The gray-haired man lifted an eyebrow and nodded in recognition. Seemingly more comfortable now, feeling as though I weren’t a total stranger, he began to speak.

“I understand you have a message for me?” he asked, fixing me with his steely gaze.

“Yes, I do,” I answered, handing him the letter in a sealed envelope.

He took the envelope and examined it suspiciously. I got the distinct feeling that he didn’t trust that I hadn’t read it. As he opened the letter and read its contents he shifted in his chair with obvious agitation. His eyebrows arched more than once as his eyes moved down the page. He was clearly not happy with what he was reading. Passing it on to the guy with the sunglasses, he waited for his reaction. The man raised his blacker-than-black shades and stared at me in disbelief. My curiosity was piqued.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m just the messenger here. I have no idea what this is all about.”

The guy with the green sweater let out a small laugh, but quickly contained it when the gray-haired man shot him a disapproving look.

“Tell Mr. Gingello he’s gonna hafta discuss this in person. I’ll arrange a meeting in Utica for next week. How long you gonna be stayin’ in New York?”

“A few days,” I answered.

“You’ll be contacted with a time and place.”

The meeting was over and Salvatore Reale escorted me to my hotel via taxi. I later understood why he had dismissed the limo. It attracted too much attention.

“The old man liked you, Georgia. I could tell.”

“Which one? They were all old,” I replied.

He laughed loudly, displaying a warm personality that had been absent on the ride in. “Carlo Gambino, the one with the beak and the gray hair.”

“That was Carlo Gambino?” I asked, genuinely impressed.

“The one and only,” he answered, amused by my ignorance. “Y’know, I wasn’t kidding about what I said on the way in from the airport. You’ve got a style, a certain way you handle yourself that could be an asset t’me. An’ from all I’ve heard, you’re not bad behind the wheel. If you’re interested in making some real money, maybe we should talk.”

I left the meeting never knowing what resulted from it, but what eventually came out of this adventure in New York was my official indoctrination into the workings of the underworld and the groundwork for my future involvement. I was cast in a part that I would play throughout my life in one form or another.

It began as an innocent side job, delivering messages and packages. As their comfort level with me increased, so did the seriousness of the job. I wasn’t just a dumb kid anymore; I was a dumb kid who could be trusted.

I was taken in by the intrigue. My venturesome nature sailed into this world without much thought of consequence. Number one rule: Never ask questions. That served only to fuel my attraction. With my thirst for adventure, I’d join a posse going in any direction, especially if it was heading away from Rochester.

Over time I began traveling to the city a couple of times a month on so-called “modeling jobs,” leaving my daughter in my mother’s care. Many of the jobs I performed for the Gambino crime family were dropping off and picking up money from cargo planes at John F. Kennedy Airport. Millions of dollars, I was later told. Not that I knew this at the time or gave it much thought, but the path had been cleared by the CIA. Our government was setting up bank accounts for the Mob in Swit zerland, among other countries, and getting paid quite handsomely for their involvement—not only in the form of money.

Part of my duties was to drive some “goodfellas” around to make pickups, or so they called it. The money I made was just as good as standing under hot lights all day, and it was a lot more exciting, that’s for sure.

Though I was never really told any details, I had my suspicions. The day came when my unvoiced questions were finally answered. I waited around the corner from a construction site with the engine running, as usual, while my two passengers were inside collecting money. I assumed they were probably breaking legs or whatever they do when people don’t pay the “vig,” interest paid to loan sharks.

Watching in my rearview mirror, I saw them charging toward the car. Out of breath, they flung open the doors and yelled at me to floor it. In my naive mind I thought maybe the men inside had outnumbered them and they themselves were running from a beating. But that thought quickly disappeared when I heard the sirens. My adrenaline shot into orbit when I saw they had pulled out their guns. The desperation in their faces left no doubt that they were prepared to shoot.

If Academy Awards were given for driving performances, I would have won hands down that day. I drove at high speeds through traffic, up and over sidewalks, and between cars where a bicycle couldn’t squeeze through—or it least it seemed that way. It played in my mind like watching a video in fast-forward. My only thought was to create distance between us and those cops or someone was going to get killed. Squealing around corners at dangerous speeds, we lost sight of the flashing red lights on 1st Avenue. Hanging a quick right on 76th Street, I sped down to East End Avenue and ducked into an alley near the park until it was clear to pull out.

Only then did I have time to think about what had just happened. I was getting in way over my head. This was a serious game, one I didn’t think I wanted to play anymore.

Later that evening we met some other men in the back room of a dark and dingy after-hours club. I still hadn’t stopped shaking from the robbery I had participated in earlier, but they were all exuberant. They lifted their glasses, toasted me for escaping the law, and presented me with an envelope stuffed with one-hundred-dollar bills for a job well-done. I accepted the three thousand dollars and the praise, but not without guilt.

Of course, greed always plays a part in corruption, but for me it was the adrenaline rush. Hooked on that high, I spent the rest of my life in pursuit of it. The exhilarating feeling of defying death. Why? I have no idea. But as far back as I can remember I’ve been seduced by danger and the mystery of the unknown.

Bino’s mom was in her usual place—the kitchen. She was a short old woman with a concerned, round face. Wearing a flowered print dress, her body showed evidence that she thoroughly enjoyed her own cooking. Dining at Bino’s took me instantly to my own mother’s kitchen, to the warmth always surrounding her. The richness of that world. The safety.

The guys were all sitting on the same bar stools where I had left them a long year ago. All except Frankie. We’d spoken off and on, but I hadn’t seen him since I’d gotten married.

“Hey, Ma, look who’s here, Georgie Girl! Cook up her favorite macaroni. Make enough for all the boys. We’re gonna have a celebration!” Bino yelled gaily, as he began pushing tables together.

Bino was pure Italian, but he looked more Scandinavian. Light hair and complexion are not so uncommon in natives of nothern Italy. He stood six-one, and had kind blue eyes and light brown hair. He could be counted on as a friend, but he wasn’t one to be crossed. Underneath his unassuming looks and tranquil demeanor he was a tough guy who’d learned how to survive, just as most of his friends in the neighborhood had.

Rosa came out of the kitchen with a wide grin on her face and her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun, wiping her hands on her soiled apron as she approached.

“It’s-a no’ the same without you, bella,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “You got a bambina now, no?”

“Yes, Rosa, I named her Toni. She’s beautiful,” I answered.

“Like-a her mama. Toni . . . that’s a good Italian name. Sit, I go cook for you. You look-a too skinny.”

She turned and hurried her plump body toward the kitchen, hitting Bino on the head with the spatula as she passed. “Bring-a the olives and the bread!”

“Okay, Ma, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Bino affectionately rolled his eyes and followed his mother into the kitchen.

“Does Frankie know you’re here, Georgie Girl?” Flip asked.

Flip. What a perfect name. I towered over him, and I wasn’t what you’d call tall. He was an exact replica of Leo Gorcey from the old TV movies of the “Dead End Kids.” All he needed was a cap turned sideways on his head to finish off the look.

“No, Flip, I thought I’d surprise him.”

“He should be walking in any minute,” he said, glancing out the fogged-up window.

“How is he, Flip?”

“He’s fine. You know Frankie. . . . To be honest with you, Georgie Girl, he’s been a bear since you left.”

Frankie waltzed in the door before I had a chance to ask Flip what he meant. His eyes lit up when he saw me. Mine did too.

“Georgie Girl? What a surprise, baby! What are you doing in the city?” he said, unzipping his worn leather jacket.

“I’m here for a modeling job.”

“How long ya here for?”

“I’m leaving tonight.”

“Tonight? You gotta be kiddin’. You just got here.”

“I know, but I—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, baby. Y’can leave tomorrow. We’re going to the Play Lounge tonight. Our favorite band is still playing. We’ll get Flip on the stage to sing us a few songs. It’ll be just like old times.”

The food was served family-style. Rosa came out of the kitchen, eyeing everyone’s plates.

“Mangia, mangia,” Rosa said, encouraging us all to eat. “How you let dis-a one go, Frankie? What’s-a matter wit’ you, huh?” Rosa scolded, slapping Frankie on the back of the head.

“The question, Rosa, is how do you keep one like this?” Frankie answered, shielding his head in anticipation of the next blow.

“You a man, no? You no tink of someting? Ah, you stonato!” she said, waving her arms as she waddled back into the kitchen.

Time had stood still here. The whole gang was at the Play Lounge: Billy, Chippy, Flip, Tommy Red, and Vic, of course, who still owned the place. We drank and danced the Lindy until four o’clock in the morning. I had not laughed like this since I’d left New York the year before. It seemed to me that I could step in and out of time, picking up in each world exactly where I had left off.

Soon I’d come to realize from my own endeavors why secrecy had to be a priority in the underworld. I’d keep the same kinds of secrets from Frankie that he had once kept from me. It would all make perfect sense.

“Tom, when I was living in New York . . . I had an affair,” I blurted out, hoping to bring an end to a marriage that had no hope of making it.

“I know, Georgia. Do you really think I’m that stupid?” he said passively.

“If you knew, why didn’t you ever say anything?” I asked, amazed that he could hold that in.

“Because I was afraid of losing you,” he answered, looking pained. “Did you see Frankie in New York this week?”

“How do you know his name?” I asked, stunned.

“I found a letter he wrote you. You’re not too good at covering your tracks. So, did you see him?” he asked, still calm.

“Yes,” I answered, feeling guilty.

“At least you’re honest.” He paused to study my face. “I followed you from your hotel . . . and I also know you came back alone. So does this mean it’s over?”

“You were in New York?” I asked, wondering if he’d seen where I went when I’d landed. But then I realized he couldn’t have, since he had dropped me off at the airport.

“Georgia, I love you very much. I’m willing to forget this and try to make our marriage work. Will you please try . . . for Toni’s sake?”

Again I voiced the reasons for my discontent, and again he made concessions. I knew our marriage would ultimately end, but I felt so bad for him that I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him any more that night than I already had. Putting his happiness before my own, we continued to live the lie. Although Tom had never met him, Frankie would always be an irritant in his subconscious.

Life with Tom was mere existing. Even if Frankie had never come into the picture, it never would have worked. I couldn’t stand staying home all the time, so I started doing things with my girlfriend Susie and my sister, Sharon, on the weekends, leaving Tom contentedly sitting in front of the TV with Toni and his popcorn. Fortunately, Toni was a good baby. She quietly amused herself without interrupting Tom’s television programs, although he was an attentive father. Tom was really a good person and I loved him in my own way, but I wasn’t in love with him. My friends and I went bowling or played cards—anything to break the monotony—but that got old too.

I had paid Tom’s tuition to the Rochester Institute of Technology. RIT is considered one of the best schools in the country for photography. He lasted for six months before he quit, an occurrence that validated my dismal outlook for our future. Tom didn’t have much going for him in the ambition department. The only time we ever went out was to visit his family, all of whom I liked very much, especially his brother, Babe, and Babe’s wife, Billie. But I needed a little more excitement than I was getting. I was bored to tears. On the other hand, Tom was disgustingly content.

My daughter wasn’t even a year old when I concluded I couldn’t live this way. The humdrum pace made me crazy. Life had to hold more than this. Stifled, I wanted to learn more, to expand my horizons. I was a curious cat with a mate who didn’t want to explore. I was adventurous, with a ferocious appetite for whatever was on the other side, just out of my reach. But Tom would never change. He was happy just the way he was. I had to get out. Breaking his heart wasn’t something I looked forward to.

Having a silent moment to myself while Toni slept, I poured a cup of coffee and sat at my kitchen table. Watching the sparrows flying around outside my window made me yearn to be as free as they were. The shrill sound of the phone ringing interrupted the escape options swirling around in my head.

“Georgia? This is Don Maggio, your favorite photographer.”

“Hi, Don, thanks for announcing yourself. I tell them all they’re my favorite, you know. What’s up?” I asked, laughing.

“We finally got approval to go ahead with that job in Puerto Rico.”

“No kidding. I thought that was pretty much dead.”

“No, it looks like Kodak got American Airlines, Sam sonite luggage, and the Puerto Rican government to all go in on the deal. It’ll be a longer schedule, but I think we can handle a few more days of sunshine, don’t you?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “When do we leave?”

“On the tenth, two weeks from now. Are you clear?”

“I’ve got some catalog work booked for that week, but I’m sure they’ll let Susie replace me.”

“Wait’ll you hear this,” Don said. “Jim Alquist is trying to get out of his other bookings, but it looks like he’s pretty locked in. What do you think about using your husband as the male model?”

Tom was perfect model material. If you can call a man beautiful, he was. His facial features were delicate for a man. Though he was of Sicilian descent, his heritage wasn’t obvious.

I hesitated. “Well . . . it would put a damper on the reason I want the job.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t you two getting along?”

“Well, we’re not fighting or anything, but I’ve been thinking about telling him I want a divorce, and I could use some space right now to think this over.”

“Jesus, after all I went through to pull this off! Do you think you could hold off telling him until the job is over?” I sensed his blood pressure rising. “You’re supposed to be a honeymoon couple on vacation in Puerto Rico. I sold the client on the money we could save on the room, and how real the photographs would look because you’re really married. They flipped over the idea. Do you think you could—”

“Don, I get paid to pretend. I do a pretty good job of it in real life too. Don’t worry; your shoot will come out just fine. They’ll never know. Have I ever let you down before?”

“No . . .” he said, taking a deep breath.

Putting down the receiver, I sighed. But then, this was exactly the vehicle I needed to send Tom out into the world on his own. He wasn’t working and depended on my income. My persistence in hounding him to better himself caused him to quit Kodak, and he hadn’t been able to hold on to a job since then. The money from this assignment would give him a nice cushion with which to embark on a new life for himself.

Our final sunset had finally come. A week of conjuring up heartfelt, loving looks was wearing on me. Tom had no idea that it was just pretend. In a romantic setting, we posed on a steep cliff under a picturesque tree. The orange glow of the sun sank slowly in the background into the angry sea below. My long chiffon dress blew softly in the evening breeze in silhouette as Tom and I exchanged tender expressions of love.

“You’re doing great, guys,” Don yelled out, feverishly clicking his Nikon.

“I love you, Georgia,” Tom said with genuine sincerity as we gracefully posed for the camera.

I continued to reflect the illusory mood.

“Okay, we’ve lost the light. I think we’ve got it, kids. It’s a wrap, everyone,” Don announced.

I stood on the edge of the cliff, deep in thought, watching the sun’s final radiance before it disappeared into the ocean. I yearned to be as free as the wind that gently blew my long blond hair against my face. Turning back to Tom, I engaged him with my eyes and revealed my agonizing thoughts.

“Tom, I want a divorce.”