CHAPTER 19

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  New York. Thursday. October 15, 1987.

A large and persistent low pressure cell over the Atlantic Ocean continued to pump cold damp air into the city. Dense gray clouds had enveloped the area and an on and off drizzle had enhanced the atmosphere for five consecutive days.

Visconti shifted his position to stare at the now cold coffee on his desk. Depressed, and tired of the relentless constancy of his life and his business, he needed a change, to be out of touch, unavailable, to go away. It didn't matter where, his only stipulation was that the destination had to be devoid of telephones and any other modern communication device.

That evening he left his office without advising anyone of his destination, or the identity of his companion. He merely told his partners of his desperate need for a break, and that he would return on Tuesday of the following week.

He and Marilyn Daring, a young and well painted blond bimbette he had recently charmed and romanced at a chic Manhattan piano bar, boarded a chartered executive Lear at La Guardia Airport. "She's short on gray matter but she has a body that never stops," he had recently said, bragging about his conquest to Jerry Mara.

Visconti smirked as he buckled his seat belt, satisfied that he was about to disappear, and at long last experience freedom from the merciless invasion of telephones, television and newspapers.

The jet whisked the two to Puerto Rico. From there, a yellow twin-Otter carried them to Anegada Island in the British Virgins, where they planned to spend four relaxing days at an expensive, yet primitive hotel.

The timing of Visconti's brief sabbatical could not have been worse. 

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