Dear Diary,
This afternoon as Michael and I were getting ready to take Lupita for a walk, we heard voices downstairs. At first I thought Mrs. Corinthos had a friend over, but then I remembered that she doesn't have friends. Instead she was giving a young woman advice on how to be a gangster's girlfriend.
"Rule number one," she smirked, "when he wants sex, you give it to him. Right then and there! Cause you never know when he's going to decide that your new haircut was a betrayal or something, and then it could be months before you get any."
"Rule number two, when he kidnaps you, that means he loves you. When he has sex with you, that means he hates you. Unless it was hate sex, in which case he really, really loves you."
"Rule number three, you've got to improve your wardrobe. Good lord woman, I can't see your bellybutton or your nipples. What kind of moll are you anyway?"
"Rule number four, don't ever, ever mention the Sopranos. They have better ratings and better writers than we do. You can't even ask for a ring like Carmela's. Trust me on this one, you do not want the kind of sh**-storm that would provoke."
The other woman made to leave and Mrs. Corinthos followed her out the door. "I give you a month, tops! Until what? Until he knocks up some lawyer who's twice your age AND twice your IQ, that's what! You may not believe me now, but you'll believe me when you're stuck in some nasty old cabin, faking your own death to get him back!" Mercifully her voice trailed off as she headed out into the hall.
Later in the evening I came upon Mr. Corinthos sitting alone, looking at an old photo. He was as expressionless as usual but there was something pensive and sad about his demeanor.
I looked over his shoulder at the photo, it was of a teenage girl wearing a Catholic school uniform, dancing on a stage with a pole. I asked him who it was. "That's Karen. She'd had a rough life, and was working hard to better herself. Until this heartless, opportunistic man, someone I used to know, got his hooks into her. He was a user. She had been the victim of childhood abuse, and he took advantage of her guilt. He also got her into drugs. He manipulated her into degrading herself like that, for his own financial gain."
He threw the photo across the room. Actually he tried to throw it, but being only a photo it fluttered a few feet and then landed on the table. Not nearly as impressive as when he throws heavier things like cocktails, or his shoes, or my son.
"Now I find out," he continued, "that the same thing is happening to my little sister! The irony!" Wow, I thought, that *is* ironic.
"The irony," he went on, "is that Courtney could be really good with the right treatment. That idiot Coleman just doesn't have the stuff! He's blackmailing her, that's a good start, but where are the drugs? The isolation from her former life? The lies and manipulation? That marshmellow actually treats his girls kindly!
"That's no way to build a relationship with a woman. You've got to keep them frightened and insecure. Afraid of your next outburst and totally dependant on you."
At that Mrs. Corinthos slinked in and draped herself over Mr. Corinthos. "You called for me?"
"Yeah," he muttered, "we're going to have sex before I make us an omelette for dinner. So get upstairs. Now."
"Anything you say," she headed obediently for the bedroom. Mr. Corinthos looked at me, puzzled. "Why are you here again?" he asked.
"I work for you, remember?" Before making my retreat I asked him one last question. "Whatever happened to that girl Karen?"
He shrugged. "She moved to the other side of Port Charles, to the new part of town, and no one's seen her since. I think she became a doctor or something. Too bad," he shook his head wistfully, "she would have made a class A whore."