Modus Operandi

Tony Carlotti wasn't a nice guy, from anyone's viewpoint. He was a high-ranking operative in the local crime syndicate, and had been arrested more times than he could name on multiple charges of racketeering, extortion, and conspiracy to commit murder. It was only his luck that he hadn't been thrown in jail for life. He was a tall, swarthy, ugly sort of guy, looking about forty-five years old. And now, Tony Carlotti was dead.

He wasn't the first one to go, either. For the past three years, noted gangsters in the city had been dying under similar circumstances, another one every three or four months. The police were secretly pleased that someone was making their job just a little bit easier, but what the boys in blue didn't much care for were the details. Even the rawest gumshoe could tell you that the circumstances of the deaths were nothing short of baffling.

The first odd thing about the deaths-- which were assumed to be murders, by everyone on the force-- was the cause of death itself. In an ordinary gangland killing, you'd usually end up with a corpse containing a few ounces of lead-- the classic cement overshoes aren't as popular as dime paperbacks make them out to be. These days, guns are generally considered to be the quickest, most efficient way to get rid of a nuisance. But these murders weren't ordinary. The mobsters hadn't been killed by bullets, or knife wounds, or anything else you'd expect. The cause of death, as far as anyone could figure out, was suffocation. Not strangling; there weren't any rope burns or finger bruises to suggest it. It was as though the killer had taken the time to hold a pillow over the victims' faces while their brains ran out of oxygen. It's certainly an effective way to kill someone, but not the sort of thing you expect to find in this day and age.

The other unusual aspect of the killings was the condition of the room. All of the murders had occurred in the victims' homes, and the surrounding area looked the same each time. The contents of the room had been destroyed, but not in any way as to suggest a robbery. The center of the room was cleared of all objects, and everything the room had contained had been moved to the perimeter. Furniture was often found splintered against the wall. The corpses were invariably up against the wall as well, moved there along with the rest of the room's contents. The doors were found ajar, or at least unlocked, and they were clearly the routes the murderer had used to escape. But that was the only obvious part of this case.

*****

Tricia wasn't her real name, of course. Then again, she wasn't really a call-girl, either. But she had to look the part, she thought, as she checked her mascaraed lashes in the mirror, and dabbed one more drop of Chanel No. 5 into her cleavage. Looking the part was all part of her act, and there was no other way to do her duty so effectively. Of course, if she had actually wanted the job, she could have taken it without any trouble at all.

At first glance, and even more so at second and third, her legs were easily her best feature. Long and slender, with all the right curves in all the right places, they seemed to climb forever until flaring into statuesque hips below a startlingly narrow waist. Her breasts were fairly small, certainly no more than a B-cup, but they were well-shaped, and perched high on her chest with no need for a bra. She wore a tight black skirt and a brilliant scarlet blouse. The silk blouse had cost her a bundle, but she knew how she looked in it, so it was more than worth the price. With every move she made, the smooth silk brushed against her sensitive nipples, and she couldn't help but delight in the sensation.

But this was no time for guilty pleasures, she thought, shaking herself out of her reverie. This was the time for business. She took one last look at her outfit in the full-length mirror, making certain that there were no flaws. If she had to look like a whore, she decided, at least she'd look like a high-class one.

She shut the door behind her as she stepped out into the cold night air, and cinched tight the belt of her gray trenchcoat. As she walked down the brightly-lit city street to her nondescript burgundy Saab, she mentally reviewed tonight's "assignment." Her client tonight was Ted Divisio, another convicted gangster. Perhaps he wasn't as high up in their ranks as some of her other targets, but in her business, every little bit helps.

Double-checking the address written on a small note-pad, she got in the driver's seat and stuck the key in the ignition. Calmly, she swung out of the tight parking space and pulled into the near-empty street, and drove in silence to her destination. Though there were plenty of spaces closer to the swank apartment building in which her quarry lived, she chose one in the back of the lot. From long experience she knew that it would be best to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

As she approached the front set of double doors, she began to flush with anticipation. Even though she had been working in this business so long that she had her act down to a routine, each new job posed brand new dangers. She tried to suppress her excitement as she picked up the inter-building phone. She dialed the number, and waited for a couple of rings until, with a clatter, the receiver was lifted on the other end.

The voice came through tinnily. "Yeah?"

She smiled as she affected her most sultry tone. "Hi, Ted. It's Tricia. I'm downstairs."

There was no further reply. The connection was cut off with a click, and then she heard the sound of the door being buzzed open. Rapidly replacing the receiver, she opened the doors and entered the plush lobby. If she had been here on a pleasure visit, she would have taken time to admire the marble floor, the brilliant potted plants, and the beautiful paintings on the walls, but, she reminded herself, she was here on business.

She walked briskly through the lobby to the elevators and pressed the "up" button. The door slid open immediately. Good, she thought, as she entered and pressed the button for the Penthouse. The sooner this was over the better. As the doors closed and the elevator began to rise, she took the time to check her makeup one last time in a small hand mirror from her purse. Her cover needed to be as convincing as it possibly could.

When she was satisfied with her condition, she disembarked. She walked down the short hallway, and knocked gently on the door to Divisio's apartment. The knob turned from the inside, and the door swung ajar to reveal Divisio's smiling face. He was a short, unpleasant type, perhaps in his early or mid-fifties. His curly black hair was graying and beginning to thin out on top. His nose was large and bulbous, and loomed over a small, uneven moustache. He wore a purple robe, tied at the waist, which thoroughly failed to make him look like Hugh Hefner.

Divisio smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "Come in," he said, staring her up and down like a restaurant menu.

When she had entered and taken a seat on an overstuffed sofa, she looked around the apartment. Gangsters make good money, and Divisio clearly subscribed to the philosophy that if one had it, one should flaunt it. An elaborate home theater setup covered one wall, and a well-stocked bar dominated another. Unfortunately, what he didn't have was taste, and he flaunted that even more. The room was filled from wall to wall with tasteless, semi-erotic sculpture. The wallpaper was cream, and waged all-out war with the purple and orange shag carpet.

Divisio was all smiles. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, gesturing towards the bar.

Her job was a dirty one, but it did have its perks. Free drinks were one of them. "Scotch on the rocks, baby."

"Comin' right up!"

He dove behind the bar and began puttering around, putting ice in glasses and pouring. When he was through, he returned with the drinks and sat down beside her on the couch, nonchalantly laying his arm around her shoulders. Idly, she wondered how long he'd be able to keep it there. Sure enough, it wasn't more than thirty seconds before he began creeping southward. She let him feel her up-- after all, she was supposed to be a call-girl, and this could even be somewhat enjoyable if he was skilled. Divisio wasn't. He stuck his clammy hand inside her blouse and pawed clumsily around her breasts for a few minutes, in a way that did absolutely nothing for her.

Gently, she reached over and pulled his hand away. "Ah, ah, ah," she chided. "There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now, there's something else I want to show you."

She stood up, opened her handbag, and withdrew a CD, which she loaded into Divisio's stereo system. She pressed the "play" button, and the room was filled with soft, undulating music. This was the only vital part of the operation-- the music and dancing allowed her to concentrate and focus. As she danced, her mind drifted back to her origins, and how she had ended up in her present situation.

*****

She was seven years old at the time. Back then, she was an innocent, pudgy-
faced little girl, enjoying her childhood like all children should. Her mother had died of cancer five years before, and she had been raised lovingly by her father ever since.

Her father was the kind of man every child deserves. He was tall and handsome, with soft brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled. They didn't have much-- her father ran a struggling clothes store in the less pleasant part of the city-- but whenever he had some income to spare, he would shower it on his beloved daughter. He made sure she had pretty dresses and shoes, and dolls like all the other girls had. Every once in a while, they would take a trip to the zoo or the amusement park, and have a wonderful day just being with each other.

Then, one night, while he was sitting in the front of the store counting receipts, and she was playing with dolls off in a corner, there was a knock at the door. He stood up to investigate. When he opened the door, it revealed two nearly identical men. They couldn't have been an inch under six-six, and they must have weighed upwards of three hundred pounds, all of it muscle. They were dressed in tailored suits, but her father didn't have the time or the inclination to admire them.

Being only seven years old, she wasn't able to grasp the gravity of the situation, but she could sense that something was wrong. She listened to the conversation, and was able to understand only that the big men wanted money, and her father didn't have any.

That was the extent of the pleasantries. From her hiding place in the corner, she watched in horror as the men began to punch her father. They knocked him down, and started kicking him. Terrified, she ran out into the alley and away. She knew that somehow, her life had been changed forever, and that she could never go back to the happy life that she had once known.

From that day on, she had been a child of the street. She learned how to steal, and how to protect what she had stolen. She eked out a living, but she was never content with her lot. She wanted more, and who could blame her? She wanted to explore faraway lands, and have glorious adventures that would bring her fame and fortune forever.

One day, when she was about eighteen, release came. In an unprecedented feat of courage, she stowed away on a freight cruiser bound for Asia. For weeks she hid in a cramped cargo hold, perpetually terrified that she might be caught. But she made it through the ordeal unnoticed, and was able to disembark while the boxes and pallets were being unloaded.

She hiked for months on end through the snowy mountains of western China, with threadbare clothes and only a tattered pair of tennis shoes to protect her feet. She survived by drinking water from snowmelt, and eating what little vegetation could be found along the path. Eventually, emaciated and exhausted, she collapsed.

When she came to, she found herself in a temple, surrounded by bald-headed monks in saffron robes. Though she didn't speak their language, and they didn't speak hers, they carefully nursed her back to health.

When she recovered fully, she chose to stay on, and participate in their rituals and exercises. The monks welcomed her, and when she expressed a desire to learn the elaborate martial arts that they practiced, they gladly included her. From them, she learned about the secrets of chi, the mystic energy within all living things. More importantly, she learned how to focus her own chi, and accomplish deeds that would otherwise be physically impossible.

*****

With an effort of will, she returned to the present. Day-dreaming would do her no good, she knew. She had already been in Divisio's apartment too long, and all she wanted was to get this over with and leave.

Unbuttoning her blouse, she stood in the alcove of the door, facing Divisio. Without a word, she shut her eyes and pursed her lips, in an effort of great concentration. Divisio, who had already been drooling from her sensual dance, stared lecherously.

Suddenly, Divisio did a double-take. Surely he must have imagined it. But, no, there it was again. Almost imperceptibly, he had seen her breasts swell. As he watched more closely, her formerly B-cup breasts expanded slowly through the cup sizes, until maybe five minutes later, she had an impressive pair of DD jugs hanging off her chest.

She opened her eyes, and the growth ceased. Smiling slightly, she asked, "Do you like it?"

Divisio was almost too stunned to speak, but he managed to croak out some words. "Yes. Yes! Bigger!"

That was all the cue she needed. Throwing her shoulders back, she closed her eyes again. Her breasts expanded even more, this time at a far more rapid rate. In only seconds, they passed out of the alphabet, and became comparable to the size of trash cans. And she didn't stop there. They continued to expand, to the point where they rested on the floor, and still they kept growing. They kept getting bigger and bigger, to the point where Divisio was sure she would explode, but she didn't. And as they grew, the irresistible force began to shove the room's furnishings out of the way, crushing the hideous statuary against the wall. Divisio was caught a glancing blow by a gigantic nipple, and was hurled across the room like nothing more than a rag doll. Still her breasts expanded, and when they rolled over the unconscious gangster, there was no hope for him. At least he died with a smile on his face.

When she was sure that Divisio was good and dead, she carefully began the reverse process. Her room-filling breasts slowly shrank, revealing the devastation they had caused during the growth, until they reverted to their original B-cup size. Calmly, she buttoned her blouse, and wrapped her trenchcoat around her shoulders.

As she walked out the door, she wondered if some day, she would ever be able to end her one-woman quest to stamp out those monsters who preyed on the innocent. Perhaps, but until that day came, the city needed a vigilante, and she was just the woman to fill that role.