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Paulo s Inferno
Paulo was sweating when he placed the listening piece of the telephone back in its cradle. He mopped his brow and loosened the cravat that now seemed to be choking him. He rose and moved to the window wall of his office that looked down into the assembly line factory floor where his firm what very soon would be his firm made the sleekest of horseless carriages that now were being called motorcars. Gina had told him just this morning that she feared his ambition and grasping were unbounded and would be his undoing. This after he had ravished her for the third time in as many days sex mad she had thought until he had let it slip that he could not be assured of his standing in her father s company until they had given the old man a grandson.
He should be pleased now after the telephone call. Now he need not waste his seed in the acid-tongued Gina anymore. Not if he could trust that smooth rich-toned voice on the telephone. And he now was far beyond questioning that whoever was behind the voice on the telephone could deliver what was promised.
Three years previously Paulo had been a pimply faced chubby clerk in a Milan mattress factory the son of a butcher and dressmaker destined for nowhere. But then the telephone calls had started. The smooth rich-toned voice suggesting what he could do to better himself promising that if he just did this or that or positioned himself here or there or said this or that to a certain person he would prosper. (more…)