"You know, you should open your own account here. I'd take real good care of you. Real good."

"I just know you would," Tracy said softly.

"Why don't you and me talk about it over a nice quiet dinner somewhere?"

"I'd surely love that."

"Where can I call you, Lureen?"

"Oh, I'll call you, Lester." She moved away.

"Wait a min---" The next customer stepped up and handed the frustrated Lester a sackful of coins.

In the center of the bank were four tables that held containers of blank deposit and withdrawal slips, and the tables were crowded with people busily filling out forms. Tracy moved away from Lester's view. As a customer made room at a table, Tracy took her place. The box that Lester had given her contained eight packets of blank checks. But it was not the checks Tracy was interested in: It was the deposit slips at the back of the packets.

She carefully separated the deposit slips from the checks and, in fewer than three minutes, she was holding eighty deposit slips in her hand. Making sure she was un.o.bserved, Tracy put twenty of the slips in the metal container.

She moved on to the next table, where she placed twenty more deposit slips. Within a few minutes, all of them had been left on the various tables. The deposit slips were blank, but each one contained a magnetized code at the bottom, which the computer used to credit the various accounts. No matter who deposited money, because of the magnetic code, the computer would automatically credit Joe Romano's account with each deposit. From her experience working in a bank, Tracy knew that within two days all the magnetized deposit slips would be used up and that it would take at least five days before the mix-up was noticed. That would give her more than enough time for what she planned to do.

On the way back to her hotel, Tracy threw the blank checks into a trash basket. Mr. Joe Romano would not be needing them.

Tracy's next stop was at the New Orleans Holiday Travel Agency. The young woman behind the.desk asked, "May I help you?"

"I'm Joseph Romano's secretary. Mr. Romano would like to make a reservation for Rio de Janeiro. He wants to leave this Friday."

"Will that be one ticket?"

"Yes. First cla.s.s. An aisle seat. Smoking, please."

"Round trip?"

"One way."

The travel agent turned to her desk computer. In a few seconds, she said, "We're all set. One first-cla.s.s seat on Pan American's Flight seven twenty-eight, leaving at six-thirty-five P.M. on Friday, with a short stopover in Miami."

"He'll be very pleased," Tracy a.s.sured the woman.

"That will be nineteen hundred twenty-nine dollars. Will that be cash or charge?"

"Mr. Romano always pays cash. COD. Could you have the ticket delivered to his office on Thursday, please?"

"We could have it delivered tomorrow, if you like."

"No. Mr. Romano won't be there tomorrow. Would you make it Thursday at eleven A.M.?"

"Yes. That will be fine. And the address?"

"Mr. Joseph Romano, Two-seventeen Poydras Street, Suite four-zero-eight."

The woman made a note of it. "Very well. I'll see that it's delivered Thursday morning."

"Eleven sharp," Tracy said. "Thank you."

Half a block down the street was the Acme Luggage Store. Tracy studied the display in the window before she walked inside.

A clerk approached her. "Good morning. And what can I do for you this morning?"

"I want to buy some luggage for my husband."

"You've come to the right place. We're having a sale. We have some nice, inexpensive---"

"No," Tracy said. "Nothing inexpensive."

She stepped over to a display of Vuitton suitcases stacked against a wall. ""That's more what I'm looking for. We're going away on a trip."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be pleased with one of these. We have three different sizes. Which one would---?"

"I'll take one of each."

"Oh. Fine. Will that be charge or cash?"

"COD. The name is Joseph Romano. Could you have them delivered to my husband's office on Thursday morning?"

"Why, certainly, Mrs. Romano."

"At eleven o'clock?"

"I'll see to it personally."

As an afterthought, Tracy added, "Oh... would you put his initials on them--- in gold? That's J.R."

"Of course. It will be our pleasure, Mrs. Romano."

Tracy smiled and gave him the office address.

At a nearby Western Union office, Tracy sent a paid cable to the Rio Othon Palace on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro. It read: REQUEST YOUR BEST SUITE COMMENCING THIS FRIDAY FOR TWO MONTHS. PLEASE CONFIRM BY COLLECT CABLE. JOSEPH ROMANO, 217 POYDRAS STREET, SUITE 408, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, USA.

Three days later Tracy telephoned the bank and asked to speak to Lester Torrance. When she heard his voice, she said softly, "You probably don't remember me, Lester, but this is Lureen Hartford, Mr. Romano's secretary, and---"

Not remember her! His voice was eager. "Of course I remember you, Lureen. I---"

"You do? Why, I'm flattered. You must meet so many people."

"Not like you," Lester a.s.sured her. "You haven't forgotten about our dinner date, have you?"

"You don't know how much I'm lookin' forward to it. Would next Tuesday suit you, Lester?"

"Great!"

"Then it's a date. Oh. I'm such an idiot! You got me so excited talkin' to you I almost forgot why I called. Mr. Romano asked me to check on his bank balance. Would you give me that figure?"

"You bet. No trouble at all."

Ordinarily, Lester Torrance would have asked for a birth date or some form of identification from the caller, but in this case it was certainly not necessary. No, Sir. "Hang on, Lureen," he said.

He walked over to the file, pulled out Joseph's Romano's sheet, and studied it in surprise. There had been an extraordinary number of deposits made to Romano's account in the past several days. Romano had never kept so much money in his account before. Lester Torrance wondered what was going on. Some big deal, obviously. When he had dinner with Lureen Hartford, he intended to pump her. A little inside information never hurt. He returned to the phone.

"Your boss has been keeping us busy," he told Tracy. "He has just over three hundred thousand dollars in his checking account."

"Oh, good. That's the figure I have."

"Would he like us to transfer it to a money market account? It's not drawing any interest sitting here, and I could---"

"No. He wants it right where it is," Tracy a.s.sured him.

"Okay."

"Thank you so much, Lester. You're a darlin'."

"Wait a minute! Should I call you at the office about the arrangements for Tuesday?"

"I'll call you, honey," Tracy told him.

And the connection was broken.

The modern high-rise office building owned by Anthony Orsatti stood on Poydras Street between the riverfront and the gigantic Louisiana Superdome, and the offices of the Pacific Import-Export Company occupied the entire fourth floor of the building. At one end of the suite were Orsatti's offices, and at the other end, Joe Romano's rooms. The s.p.a.ce in between was occupied by four young receptionists who were available evenings to entertain Anthony Orsatti's friends and business acquaintances. In front of Orsatti's suite sat two very large men whose lives were devoted to guarding their boss. They also served as chauffeurs, ma.s.seurs, and errand boys for the capo.

On this Thursday morning Orsatti was in his office checking out the previous day's receipts from running numbers, bookmaking, prost.i.tution, and a dozen other lucrative activities that the Pacific Import-Export Company controlled.

Anthony Orsatti was in his late sixties. He was a strangely built man, with a large, heavy torso and short, bony legs that seemed to have been designed for a smaller man. Standing up he looked like a seated frog. He had a face crisscrossed with an erratic web of scars that could have been woven by a drunken spider, an oversized mouth, and black, bulbous eyes. He had been totally bald from the age of fifteen after an attack of alopecia, and had worn a black wig ever since. It fitted him badly, but in all the years no one had dared mention it to his face. Orsatti's cold eyes were gambler's eyes, giving away nothing, and his face, except when he was with his five daughters, whom he adored, was expressionless. The only clue to Orsatti's emotions was his voice. He had a hoa.r.s.e, raspy voice, the result of a wire having been tightened around his throat on his twenty-first birthday, when he had been left for dead. The two men who had made that mistake had turned up in the morgue the following week. When Orsatti got really upset, his voice lowered to a strangled whisper that could barely be heard.

Anthony Orsatti was a king who ran his fiefdom with bribes, guns, and blackmail. He ruled New Orleans, and it paid him obeisance in the form of untold riches. The capos of the other Families across the country respected him and constantly sought his advice.

At the moment, Anthony Orsatti was in a benevolent mood. He had had breakfast with his mistress, whom he kept in an apartment building he owned in Lake Vista. He visited her three times a week, and this morning's visit had been particularly satisfactory. She did things to him in bed that other women never dreamed of, and Orsatti sincerely believed it was because she loved him so much. His organization was running smoothly. There were no problems, because Anthony Orsatti knew how to solve difficulties before they became problems. He had once explained his philosophy to Joe Romano: "Never let a little problem become a big problem, Joe, or it grows like a f.u.c.kin' s...o...b..ll. You got a precinct captain who thinks he oughta get a bigger cut--- you melt him, see? No more s...o...b..ll. You get some hotshot from Chicago who asks permission to open up his own little operation here in New Orleans? You know that pretty soon that 'little' operation is gonna turn into a big operation and start cuttin' into your profits. So you say yes, and then when he gets here, you melt the son of a b.i.t.c.h. No more s...o...b..ll. Get the picture?"

Joe Romano got the picture.

Anthony Orsatti loved Romano. He was like a son to him. Orsatti had picked him up when Romano was a punk kid rolling drunks in alleys. He himself had trained Romano, and now the kid could tap-dance his way around with the best of them. He was fast, he was smart, and he was honest. In ten years Romano had risen to the rank of Anthony Orsatti's chief lieutenant. He supervised all the Family's operations and reported only to Orsatti.

Lucy, Orsatti's private secretary, knocked and came into the office. She was twenty-four years old, a college graduate, with a face and figure that had won several local beauty contests. Orsatti enjoyed having beautiful young women around him.

He looked at the clock on his desk. It was 10:45. He had told Lucy he did not want any interruptions before noon. He scowled at her. "What?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Orsatti. There's a Miss Gigi Dupres on the phone. She sounds hysterical, but she won't tell me what she wants. She insists on speaking with you personally. I thought it might be important."

Orsatti sat there, running the name through the computer in his brain. Gigi Dupres? One of the broads he had up in his suite his last time in Vegas? Gigi Dupres? Not that he could remember, and he prided himself on a mind that forgot nothing. Out of curiosity, Orsatti picked up the phone and waved a dismissal at Lucy.

"Yeah? Who's this?"

"Is thees Mr. Anthony Orsatti?" She had a French accent.

"So?"

"Oh, thank G.o.d I get hold of you, Meester Orsatti!"

Lucy was right. The dame was hysterical. Anthony Orsatti was not interested. He started to hang up, when her voice went on.

"You must stop him, please!"

"Lady, I don't know who you're talkin' about, and I'm a busy---"

"My Joe. Joe Romano. He promised to take me with him, comprenez-vous?"

"Hey, you got a beef with Joe, take it up with him. I ain't his nursemaid."

"He lie to me! I just found out he is leave for Brazil without me. Half of that three hundred thousand dollars is mine."

Anthony Orsatti suddenly found he was interested, after all. "What three hundred thousand you talkin' about?"

"The money Joe is hiding in his checking account. The money he--- how you say?--- skimmed."

Anthony Orsatti was very interested.

"Please tell Joe he must take me to Brazil with him. Please! Weel you do thees?"

"Yeah;" Anthony Orsatti promised. "I'll take care of it."

Joe Romano's office was modern, all white and chrome, done by one of New Orleans's most fashionable decorators. The only touches of color were the three expensive French Impressionist paintings on the walls. Romano prided himself on his good taste. He had fought his way up from the slums of New Orleans, and on the way he had educated himself. He had an eye for paintings and an ear for music. When he dined out, he had long, knowledgeable discussions with the sommelier about wines. Yes, Joe Romano had every reason to be proud. While his contemporaries had survived by using their fists, he had succeeded by using his brains. If it was true that Anthony Orsatti owned New Orleans, it was also true that it was Joe Romano who ran it for him.

His secretary walked into his office. "Mr. Romano, there's a messenger here with an airplane ticket for Rio de Janeiro. Shall I write out a check? It's COD."

"Rio de Janeiro?" Romano shook his head. "Tell him there's some mistake."

The uniformed messenger was in the doorway. "I was told to deliver this to Joseph Romano at this address."

"Well, you were told wrong. What is this, some kind of a new airline promotion gimmick?"

"No, sir. I---"

"Let me see that." Romano took the ticket from the messenger's hand and looked at it. "Friday. Why would I be going to Rio on Friday?"

"That's a good question," Anthony Orsatti said. He was standing behind the messenger. "Why would you, Joe?"

"It's some kind of dumb mistake, Tony." Romano handed the ticket back to the messenger. "Take this back where it came from and---"