Richard stopped at nothing. He fueled the fire that existed between my daughter and me. He used our strained relationship to his advantage, condoning both her and Jay’s behavior and making himself their ally—someone with whom they could seek refuge and feel exonerated. He took them on trips and bought them gifts. He was an expert at using people and manipulating them to do his dirty deeds. He made large donations to Dustin’s school and showered the administration with gifts.

It broke my heart to see my son being pulled away from me. I’d never felt more alone. Richard did a good job of poisoning Dustin’s vulnerable mind.When I would pick him up, he was scared to look happy to see me.

“What’s the matter, Dusty? Don’t you love Mommy anymore?” I asked.

He looked out the car window and waited until he could no longer see his dad’s house.

“I love you, Mommy,” he answered, wrapping his arms around my neck. He wiggled as close to me as he could get, and rested his head against me. Then, suddenly, he jerked his head up and looked at me. “Don’t tell Daddy I kissed you. . . . He’ll be mad.”

My heart broke. “It’s not wrong to love your mom, Dusty.”

“Don’t tell him; don’t tell him!” he pleaded.

“Okay, okay . . . but why are you so afraid?”

“ ’Cause.”

“ ’Cause why?”

“ ’Cause he won’t buy me the remote-control truck.”

“That’s not a very good reason to pretend you don’t love your mom.”

“I know, but he doesn’t like it when I love you. He always says bad things about you. When I tell him he’s lying, he gets mad at me, and then he doesn’t buy me stuff.”

“You shouldn’t ever have to pretend like that, Dusty.”

“Sometimes it’s not pretend.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling another jab to my heart.

“How come you always have to take me on weekends? That’s when my dad does all the fun things—and I can never go.”

“Your dad shouldn’t plan things on our weekends together. He does that on purpose, Dusty, so you won’t want to come to my house. We have fun at my house too, don’t we?”

“Yeah, but you don’t got all the neat toys like at Dad’s house.”

When we arrived at my house, Richard called—as he normally did. He persistently worked at trying to turn Dustin against me.

“Put my son on the phone,” he demanded.

I gave Dustin the phone and went into the bedroom and picked up the extension.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” Richard said.

“Hi, Dustin, this is Patrick. I just got here with my father. Are you coming on the boat with us tomorrow?”

“No, I gotta stay at my mom’s house,” Dustin answered disappointedly.

“Okay, here’s your dad. . . .”

“Dust, is it okay if Patrick and his friend play with your Nintendo? They wish you could be here. It’s no fun for them when you’re not here, but we’re going to have a lot of fun tomorrow. If you didn’t have to stay with your mother, you could have fun, too.”

“I wanna go,” Dustin whined.

“Wish you could. Well, I gotta go now. I have to set up the Nintendo for the kids.”

After Dustin got off the phone, he had a temper tantrum. Exactly what his father had in mind. Damn Richard! He did this all the time, and each time he did it, Dustin’s resentment toward me grew. It was such a cruel thing to do a child’s mind—all for the sake of winning. I finally had to get a court order to keep him from calling the house when Dustin was with me.

On Dustin’s birthday, he wanted a go-cart that an acquaintance of mine had for sale. I offered to pay the fifty dollars she was asking. Richard found out, and when I went over to pick it up, it was gone. He had gotten there before me and offered to pay her $100. He didn’t want me to have anything that might be a lure. The sad thing was, Dustin couldn’t even ride the go-cart at Richard’s house. He lived on a hill, so Dustin was confined to the driveway.

My son would have to talk to the judge at some point and tell him with whom he preferred living. Richard had a whole year to work on my child’s gullible mind. He succeeded in making Dustin resent me in countless ways.

Richard claimed that I had relinquished custody of Dustin to him, then had changed my mind six months later. When I went to the school to ask them to verify what had really happened, they turned their backs and said they did not want to get involved. Involvement, of course, meant a loss of revenue.

My diligent efforts landed me the Oldsmobile account, bringing plenty of commercials to go around for the entire team. In the first spot in the series I doubled for Priscilla Presley, although her daughter, Lisa, was being featured. Oldsmobile went all-out on this new campaign, sparing no expense. They hired a Learjet to fly the talent to the shooting location in Washington State. I was used to being flown first-class, but this was a step above that.

Priscilla was a pain in the butt, refusing to fly in anything but a Gulfstream. They reluctantly gave in to her request. Being given an inch, she went for a foot—demanding the same top-of-the-line personal vehicle which Lisa Marie had been given.The advertising agency drew the line. They did part with a car, but a model of lesser value than her daughter received. I could never understand why stars had to act in such a manner, but even more unclear to me is why the people who pay the tab put up with it. Even so, the escape from my personal life’s irritants was refreshing.

I didn’t have to deal with Priscilla all that much. I worked mostly with Lisa in the car. We drove in and out of the surf with a helicopter filming closely behind, above, and in front. Beach driving can be tricky. Being where a chopper needs me to be and concentrating on not getting swallowed by a wave is a true test of ability. The surf was deceiving and unpredictable, causing me to make sudden changes in direction. In making those sudden moves, I was constantly cautious of the helicopter—just feet from the vehicle. Lisa was nervous at first, but after the first day she became more comfortable and began having fun.

When the job ended, I once again concentrated on the strategy of making my son a more permanent part of my everyday life.

It took about sixteen months to finally bring the custody case to trial. It was the most heartrending time of my life. I was cut off at every turn, as Richard always got there first with his wallet. With every day that passed, Dustin was being pushed farther and farther from me. My only weapon was to simply love him.

Toni and Jay had moved in together after she’d graduated. Toni and I hadn’t spoken, but Dustin told me he saw them at his father’s all the time. Richard had managed to steal both my children. Heartbroken, I put on my public face and went about my life like a robot.

A court date was finally settled on. That is, if Richard didn’t file for another continuance. I had lost a great deal of income turning down work, thinking each new date would be the real thing.

“Hello, Georgia. Recognize the voice?” he asked.

“Salvatore Reale! How’s it going?”

“Great. How’s your business doin’?” Sal asked.

“It’s doing well,” I answered.

“Good. Always knew that’d be your ticket; you’re pretty good behind the wheel—for a woman,” he added with a laugh.

“Still a chauvinist I see, Sal.”

“Not really. I’m calling because I need your driving expertise.”

“Oh?” I answered, wishing suddenly that I’d let my answering machine pick up.

“I need you to transport something from Vegas to New York for me. There’s fifty grand in it for you.”

“Reale, I stopped transporting bodies in the sixties.”

He laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“What else could be worth $50,000?”

“I’m sending you a ticket. Meet me in Vegas next Tuesday. The name of the hotel will be with the ticket. And you know the name I’ll be registered under.”

“Sal, I have a job next week. I—”

“Not one that pays fifty grand. Be there.” He hung up.

The ticket arrived the next day. I had to go. Resolving this over the phone was out of the question. $50,000 would make a pretty good dent in my attorney’s fees, but losing my son wasn’t worth the risk. Now, how do I convince Sal?

When I arrived at the designated place, I knocked on the door. I heard shuffling inside, then a gruff voice saying, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Georgia.”

The door opened slightly, enough for Jerry Pitzitello to peek his head out and look both ways down the hall. He was one of the guys from my old New York days. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was unshaven. He opened the door just enough for me to squeeze inside.

Armed with an Uzi and dressed in clothes that looked as if they’d been slept in, Jerry said, “The years haven’t hurt you a bit. You’re looking pretty damn good.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he answered, not sounding the least bit insulted.

“Jesus, Jerry, what are you guarding in here, Fort Knox?”

“Sal’s in the other room; he’s been waiting for you.”

When Jerry opened the door to the adjoining room, I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were guarding Fort Knox. $4.5 million, in stacks three feet high, covered two queen-size beds. The $100 bills were bound with rubber bands in $10,000 bundles.

Sal stood next to the bed, immaculately dressed, as usual, and enjoying the expression of awe on my face.

Knowing I was asking a stupid question, I blurted out, “Where did all this money come from?”

Sal raised a suspicious eyebrow and didn’t answer. “We rented a car for you. Tomorrow you—”

“Wait a minute, Sal. First tell me what the deal is with this money,” I interrupted.

“It’s clean. That’s all you need to know,” Sal answered.

“How clean can it be if you’re paying me fifty thousand to transport it? Come on, Sal.”

“Okay, the money’s mine. I need you to transport it because I can’t take the risk of gettin’ stopped. The IRS, you know the dance.”

“Yeah, but where’s the risk, Sal? For fifty grand, I know there has to be one.”

“You may have a problem getting through the checkpoints at the Texas border. But with your face, who’d ever suspect? We’ve already checked it out. At midnight they have a shift change. The guards are busy checking in and out and they wave all the cars through. The timing’s gotta be exact. But if you should have a problem . . . that’s where your driving ability comes in. This isn’t chicken feed, y’know. We’re trusting you.”

Sal was not your regular kind of wiseguy. He was voted Man of the Year for Queens County in 1978 and had served as campaign manager for Geraldine Ferraro when she ran for vice president of the United States. He had his hands in the pockets of many New York politicians, from the governor’s office on down. He possessed a smart business sense and had invested his money well over the years. It wasn’t inconceivable that this money was really his, but I smelled more to the story than he wanted to reveal. It was true that the less I knew, the better off I was, but this was not the old days. I was wiser now.

“I realize that, Sal. But there is a risk, and I can’t take that risk right now.” Sal’s face turned hard, sending a chill up my spine. He could be extremely treacherous if you crossed him. I’d made the mistake of calling on him a few times for a favor. Wrong thing to do with a guy like Sal. He was now calling in the debt and expected me to pay up.

I continued while I still had the momentum. “The timing is all wrong. I’m going to trial soon for custody of my son. If anything happens, it’ll cost me. Although I could really use it, no amount of money is worth it. I’m sorry, Salvatore. I just can’t take that chance.”

“That problem can be easily eliminated. Fuckin’ sand-nigger should be whacked—”

I cringed. Behind Sal’s gentlemanly facade was a heartless killer. “Yeah, well, there’s no one who hates that man more than I do, but he’s still my son’s father.”

Sal swore under his breath in Italian and paced around the room. “What happened to your balls? Has Hollywood softened you up?”

“C’mon, Sal, give me a break. Jesus, this is all I need right now.”

“I’m really not happy about this, Georgia. . . .” He thought for a moment. “Ehh, shit. Okay, you’re off the hook, but goddamn it, you’d better remember—you owe me one.”

Groping for the receiver, I mumbled a sleepy hello.

“Georgia . . . I got a serious problem,” Sal announced, sounding as if he’d just finished running a 10K.

“Oh, shit . . .” I sat up in bed and turned on the light. “What happened?”

“They got us at the Sierra Blanca checkpoint near El Paso.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Yeah. We were a little early for the midnight shift change, so we stopped for coffee about twenty minutes from the checkpoint,” he explained, speaking rapidly. “When we pulled back on the highway, I opened the window a crack to let out the smoke. That’s when I heard the helicopter, but it didn’t register. As we approached the checkpoint, the border patrol stepped out in front of the car. It was pitch-black out there, but my headlights illuminated his face pretty good as he stood directly in front of the car. He looked down at my plate and then his eyes slowly rose up over the hood, lookin’ me square in the eye. I knew we were dead. My fuckin’ stomach fell out.”

“Oh, God, I know how you must have felt,” I said.

“No, you don’t. Anyway, I was thinkin’ about squashing him when outta nowhere, ten of ’em, DEA and customs agents, carrying shotguns and wearing bulletproof vests, surrounded the car. They already knew our names. How do you suppose they knew that, Georgia?” he questioned suspiciously.

Am I still asleep? Did he just say what I thought he said? My heart started racing. “What are you saying, Sal? You think I blew you in?”

“I hope not, for your sake. Only three people knew about this besides me, you, and Jerry. I do trust you, but right now you’re highly suspicious. I hope J.G. didn’t discuss this with anyone. Maybe it was bad phones; I don’t know. I can’t take a chance of making contact right now, so until we see how this thing washes, watch your back.”

“Where are you now, Sal?”

“At a gas station, about twenty miles down the road from the checkpoint.”

“Where’s the money?”

“They got it in a wooden shack back there at the checkpoint. Guy by the name of John Hopkins, some big shot with the DEA, gave me his card and told me to call him in a few days. Said they needed time to count it. Ha! They’ll be there a fuckin’ week. We’re lucky they didn’t take us in.”

“Sal, this isn’t making sense. They didn’t cuff you. They let you go. Where’s the crime? This is beginning to scare me. I have a feeling if you head down that road another ten miles there’s going to be a roadblock. And ya know what? You’re not gonna make it out of there alive. They’re going to say you tried to run. That’s $4.5 million you left back there. Now that they have their hands on it, do you really think you’re ever going see it again? I don’t know what’s clouding your brain, but you’d better get your ass back there—pronto!”

The dead sound of silence rang loudly in my ear, and then Sal said, “Jesus Christ, you’re not too dumb for a broad. I think you hit it right. I’ll call you back.” He hung up abruptly.

A mix of emotions surged through me. I felt exceedingly grateful that I had been able to get out of doing the job. I was also fearful for Sal and Jerry, and scared to death that I wouldn’t have the chance to be proven innocent. I wanted to run, but if I took off now, I’d only look guilty. I wiped the dust from my gun and slipped it under my pillow. How could I allow myself to think this chapter of my life could ever be over?

By this time, I knew my rights. I didn’t have to talk to them. But they had done their homework. The first thing they said concerned my impending child custody trial. They threatened to subpoena me if I didn’t talk, not only making the judge in my case aware of my involvement, but also informing the rest of the country. All could be kept quiet, however, as long as I cooperated. I had nothing to hide, and I really didn’t know where the money came from. I let them in.

The IRS agent plopped down on my couch, and it sagged down five inches. The chalk-faced FBI agent sat beside me and laid a picture on the table.

“This look familiar?” He waited while I looked at it. Even in a photograph the money was an awesome sight. “What can you tell us about this money?”

“I can’t tell you anything. I know about as much as you do. Nothing.”

“We know you were offered fifty thousand to transport it. We’ve got it on tape. We want to know where it came from, and the reason you didn’t do it, which, by the way, was a smart move. We had a beeper in Mr. Reale’s car, been tailing him ever since he and Pitzitello left New York.”

“I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to,” I answered flatly.

Playing good cop/bad cop all by himself, the FBI man thundered, “You know that’s the skim money from Vegas to John Gotti and the Gambino family! We have you tied to that family from the late sixties, so don’t try to bullshit us.”

“Is that a weekly or a monthly take?” inquired the IRS agent.

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Or maybe it’s the missing money from the Lufthansa heist? Your friend Salvatore organized the unions at the JFK airport during that time. You remember that, don’t you?” the FBI agent asked in a way that told me he had more pieces to the puzzle than he cared to divulge.

“That money was never recovered,” the customs agent added. I was wondering if he could speak. He had been sitting there the whole time, staring at me with a trained eye, studying my body language. He was getting under my skin.

I walked to the fridge and took out a can of soda. “Ya know what?” I said, irritated that I’d been dragged into this mess. “If you’ve been keeping tabs on me, you should know what my movements have been over the past ten years. Try investigating your own government agencies if you really want answers. I wish all you guys would just let me get on with my life.”

“Well, let’s see. . . . In 1985 we have pictures of you at Sparks Steak House on East 46th Street with John Gotti and two other captains of the Gambino crime family. That was during the week they were playing musical chairs and the pianist, Paul Castalano, was shot. Before that, we can place you at the infamous fourteen-hour lunch at Altadonna’s restaurant in Queens. They’re still writing about that in the New York Times. Your elusive presence in this world has long been a mystery to us. You may not get around too often, but when you do, it’s a pretty major event. And these are just a few of the things we know about.”

I remembered that night well. I was meeting Sal to go to an after-hours club. Upon my arrival at Altadonna’s around two a.m., I noticed a blue van with exhaust coming out of the muffler parked across the street. After I brought this to Sal’s attention, the meeting ended abruptly.

The night Paul Castalano was murdered, I was in a bar in Manhattan with Sal when we saw the news broadcast announcing his death. Sal had a broad smile on his face as he watched the news commentator. Sal had been acting sort of edgy, insisting that I spend the entire day with him. Now I understood why. He knew what was coming down and needed an alibi. He asked me to join him at a hidden farmhouse in Vermont that the Mob often used after a publicized murder had taken place. I refused. This was a red-hot happening that I wanted no part of. The eighty-eight acres of wilderness was owned by a New York City police lieutenant. This law enforcement official was responsible for setting up a safe haven for the Mob. He put the tie together with “Shoot ’Em in the Back” Donnelley, the local sheriff of the small Vermont town. Being on the Mob’s payroll, Donnelley tipped off the mobsters whenever the Feds came snooping around. It had been an interesting week.

I ignored the agent’s sarcasm and flopped into the oversize leather chair stationed near the fireplace. “My presence both times was perfectly innocent,” I answered, unshaken.

“Yeah, sure it was. What kind of business does a guy like Salvatore Reale have for fourteen hours with Commissioner Sedowski, Board of Elections; Pete Presioso, head of Intelligence; John Santucci, district attorney for Queens; and Lieutenant Doyle of the 106th precinct?”

“If three grand juries couldn’t find out, why would you think I’d have the answer?” But I did have the answer. It was never made public, but the purpose of that meeting was to use the Mob’s influence to get Pete Presioso elected as the new Police commissioner.

The FBI agent leaned back on the couch and ran a hand over his closely cut reddish hair. “We’re still baffled. Only two calls were placed at that meeting. Why would they call Tip O’Neil, in Washington and Mayor Koch at home?” The agent seemed to be asking the question more to himself than to me.

I tried hard not to grin. “Beats the hell out of me,” I said, popping the top off my can of soda and taking a long swig.

“We know for a fact that you know more than you’re telling us. If you want to win your custody case, I think you’d better start talking.”

“What’s so unusual about Sal being with a bunch of politicians? He was elected to the National Convention for Nixon for the thirty-eighth assembly district, for Christ’s sake!” I retorted.

“Yeah, we know about that. And it turned out to be the most politically corrupt clubhouse ever under Reale’s leadership. Maybe even worse than when Carmine DeSapio ran Tammany Hall.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Your friend Salvatore is quite a colorful guy, a real gentleman. Now tell us about this money,” he pressed.

They grilled me for a little longer. The FBI agent finally stood to leave, giving me an unsatisfied grin. Leading the way, I opened the door and they all filed out.

“We’ll be in touch. . . .”

When Sal and Jerry walked back into the guard shack, only seven of the original ten men were still there. The agents, still hovering over the money, were shocked when they turned and saw that the two mobsters had returned. An awkward silence filled the room while the agents cautiously eyed one another.

The money was neatly laid out on two eight-foot-long tables. A four-by-four-foot empty space immediately signaled foul play. Sal nonchalantly scanned the money, quickly adding it up in his head. Ten bundles high, $100,000 per row . . . that meant a total of $700,000 missing, along with the three agents. Recognizing the greed in the eyes that watched him, Sal knew that if he accused them, he and Jerry would be dead. He resolved to let them keep the $700,000 and he’d walk away. But it wasn’t that easy.

By daybreak the next morning, the border patrol and the other agents were still counting the money. It was a long, exhausting night. Sal began to look a bit disheveled. Jerry remained unchanged. They were sitting on a bench outside of the shack, smoking a cigarette from their fifth pack, when they heard the faint roar of helicopters approaching. As the sound grew louder, they could make out three birds in the sky, flying in an echelon formation. Closer. Heat waves rose from the hot desert road, creating a surreal mirage effect as the flying machines came into focus. Closer.

The military-type choppers circled overhead, preparing to land. Adrenaline shot through both Sal and Jerry as the helicopters descended, creating a dust storm from which there was no escape. Sal said an odd thought crossed his mind; he wondered if the dry cleaners could get the dirt out of his $400 silk shirt. Knowing Sal, I didn’t find that thought so odd.

The helicopter blades were still spinning when the doors slid open and men in black jumpsuits, armed with machine guns, came out. Not until the dust settled could Sal and Jerry tell how many there were. An army of men, some forty in all, arrived via helicopters, government vehicles, and state police cars.

John Gleason and George Stamboulitis from the New York Organized Crime Strike Force were flown in during the night in a private jet. A siren was heard and a speeding car pulled up to the scene carrying a U.S. Attorney from Texas. A round-faced, gray-haired FBI agent by the name of Reynolds and the chief of border patrol came in from Washington.

No camaraderie existed among the government officials. Each pursued his own self-important path to fame. With proud smiles, they took turns posing for pictures standing next to the money. Before long, heated arguments flared between them over who would be getting the money. The FBI argued that it had initiated the investigation. Customs declared its claim, as it was their illegal-alien checkpoint where the money was confiscated. The DEA argued that it would be proven to be drug money and therefore should belong to them.

As the officials all huddled, another car pulled up. Four men in suits exited the vehicle. One of them, carrying a white piece of paper, walked directly over to the money and slapped the paper on top of it, saying, “This is an IRS matter.” His credentials revealed that he was the head of Intelligence Division for the IRS. Sal noted that the look on the other faces was almost as pained as his own expression had been eight hours earlier.

The FBI man, Reynolds, eventually walked over to Sal, asking him to sign a release for the money. Sal looked at the paper, which read $3.8 million. He handed it back to the agent, saying, “I’m not signing that; it’s the wrong amount. There’s supposed to be 4.5 million. They stole $700,000 when they released us.”

Reynolds let lose with a roaring laugh and hollered over to John Hopkins, “Hey, Hopkins, wanna hear a good one? This guinea says you released him.”

The room fell silent. Hopkins eyes darted nervously from face to face.”Hey, well, what’s the crime? We didn’t find any drugs. The money could be theirs, for all we know. What could we hold ’em on?”

Reynolds’s eyes narrowed. “You know he’s a top OC guy. We knew about it; you knew about it—who you kidding?” Reynolds turned to Jerry, still not believing that any law enforcement officials would be stupid enough to let the suspects out of their sight. “Did you leave the scene?”

“We came together; we left together,” Jerry answered.

“Where’d you go?” Reynolds asked with great concern.

“To a gas station down the road.”

Reynolds glanced at John Hopkins with a disgusted look, and then turned back to Jerry. “You use the phone?”

“Yeah.”

Reynolds panicked. He yelled out to the other agents, “We’re gonna be taken down! Get the money out of here—NOW!”

The helicopters started up. Men disappeared in the dust storm with bags full of money. Each helicopter took off with $1 million and one man from each government agency. The $800,000 left over was divided between seven vehicles. In a matter of five minutes, the place was evacuated.

The remaining lawmen jumped into the waiting cars and turned on the flashing lights. With sirens blaring and speeds exceeding a hundred miles per hour, they headed for the Federal Building sixty miles away in El Paso. Jerry turned to Sal after they were placed in the car and said, “Gee, now I know what John Dillinger musta felt like.”

Upon entering the Federal Building, Sal and Jerry were taken to the fifth floor. Awaiting their arrival were eight Secret Service agents who had been flown in earlier from Washington. Their job was to check the money for counterfeit bills. So far, Sal and Jerry were clear of any wrongdoing, except perhaps evading taxes.

Sal smelled it coming. He took Reynolds aside and whispered, “Listen, Fat Face, you stick a phony bill in there and believe me, I’ll scream plenty. I’ll start from the president on down. I’m sure the American public would find it interesting why the CIA had members of the Gambino crime family standing by in the background in France when President Bush met with Ollie North on the Iran-Contra matter. And that’s just one example.” Reynolds understood.

Sal was eventually charged with a probation violation for unauthorized travel and served five years in prison. Jerry was released. The money was never returned, nor did Sal ask for it back. And I got back to my problem at hand.