‘W . . . w . . . what’s going on?’ she stammered.
‘Wait outside an’ don’t disturb me. Ya unnerstand English?’
Brigette looked at her pleadingly, relieved to see another female. ‘This man has kidnapped us,’ she began to say. ‘He’s—’
The back of his hand caught her across the cheek.
Roberto screamed.
Eden backed from the room as he hit the boy too. She couldn’t help them. She couldn’t even help herself.
Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Nine
The die was cast. Whatever happened now was out of her hands.
A phone call from The Guardian summoned Lucky to an apartment house off Hollywood Boulevard. Tim Wealth’s apartment.
Caveman accompanied her from the car. Contrary to his nickname he wore a sports jacket and neatly pressed pants – he looked like a college graduate, but she knew he carried a solid piece, and hoped he was reliable in times of trouble.
They walked up the outside staircase dodging homecoming school students, and an irrascible old drunk blocking everyone’s way.
The Guardian let them in. He had edgy grey eyes that scanned the landscape.
Lucky entered the small apartment and stood stock still. A body was slumped on the floor. A body which not only had been roughed up, but shot in the head.
‘Tim Wealth,’ The Guardian said tersely. ‘I got here before he left us.’
Lucky held her breath. ‘And?’
‘We got more grief,’ The Guardian offered grimly. ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Santino Bonnatti?’
Her heart stopped. ‘Bonnatti?’ she whispered.
The Guardian nodded. ‘Santino has the children.’
Chapter One-Hundred-Forty
Blue Jay Way was a quiet winding street high in the hills above Hollywood. There was not much passing traffic, just the occasional resident running an errand.
Boogie, in the back of the surveillance truck, figured it was the perfect hideaway to keep Roberto and Brigette. He was sure they had hit pay dirt when the Mercedes they were following slowed down. He was more than sure when he observed three men get out of the car, and with them were the children. One of the men looked vaguely familiar – but he couldn’t put a name to the face.
For a moment he had to decide whether to take them there and then. But the odds were stacked against him. Three guys – probably carrying – and anxious to hang on to a million buckeroos. There would be crossfire. Someone could get hurt, and there was no way he planned to risk endangering Roberto or Brigette. Besides, Lucky would never want them involved in any kind of shoot out.
He waited until they were all in the house, then he tried to contact Lucky on the car phone. Her driver took the call and told him to wait.
Minutes ticked by slowly. He was patient, thoughtful. The decision was ultimately hers.
When she came on the line he could hear the icy anger in her voice. ‘Where are you?’ she asked urgently.
He gave her the address and the news.
She relayed the information to her driver and told him to get there fast. Then she said as calmly as she could manage, ‘Was one of the men Santino Bonnatti?’
With dull realization he knew the familiar face was indeed Bonnatti, and the implications became clear.
‘How do you want to proceed?’ he asked. ‘Maybe now we should bring the police in.’
‘It’ll take too much time,’ she replied, mind racing. ‘Caveman and The Guardian are with me. And you have Dave. We’re going to deal with it ourselves – it’s the only way.’
‘I don’t know who else is in the house,’ Boogie said. He had learned a long time ago never to argue with Lucky Santangelo.
‘Find out what you can,’ she replied tensely. ‘We’re on our way.’
Boogie left the van and went to the front to alert Dave. ‘She wants to go with it,’ he said. ‘Her kid’s in there. Are you with us?’
Dave nodded, and patted the concealed .38 he kept strapped to his waist.
‘She’ll be more than generous,’ Boogie promised.
‘The money doesn’t matter’, Dave said. ‘I don’t like people who fuck around with children. They need a lesson.’
‘Amen,’ said Boogie. ‘I’m gonna check out the action.’
The two years he had spent in the jungles of Vietnam made him light on his feet and a mover of stealth and lightning. He vanished into the deep undergrowth around the side and made his way up a hilly incline of bushes and scrub.
Before long he had a perfect downward view of the house.
* * *
Lennie sat in his study and kept on trying the number Costa had given him for the car.
It was continually busy.
He swore to himself and thought of how Lucky must be feeling. She needed him. And if only he could get through to her and find out where she was, he would be there. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
Alice came into the room and placed a cup of coffee on the desk. It was the single most thoughtful thing she had ever done for him, but who could sit around drinking coffee at a time like this?
Bingo! Finally he was connecting. The line rang, and a man answered.
‘Yeah?’
‘Put me on to Lucky.’
The sound was muffled, then her voice.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded.
She knew it was him immediately, but this was not the time for a reunion.
‘I’m taking care of it, Lennie,’ she said breathlessly.
He exploded with fury. ‘You’re taking care of it. What about the police?’
‘No police,’ she said calmly. ‘Trust me.’
‘Where are you?’ he repeated urgently.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Like hell you can’t!’ He had never felt so helpless in his life.
‘We’re approaching Blue Jay Way,’ The Guardian said.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Lucky breathed into the phone. ‘I’ll have the children any minute.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Lennie screamed.
There was no harm in telling him now. By the time he got there it would be all over.
‘No police,’ she insisted.
‘You got it.’
Quickly she told him where they were. He threw the phone down and raced from the house.
Chapter One-Hundred-Forty-One
The night manager of the New York hotel stood outside the door of room 425, and knocked several times.
When there was no reply he slipped his pass key in the lock, and entered.
At first he thought they were asleep – the legendary rock star and the fat blonde. They were sprawled grotesquely naked across the bed.
The night manager stood very still and listened for the sound of breathing. He drew closer, observing the signs of an all-night dope party. There were bottles of pills spilled on a bedside table, an empty syringe, a half-filled glassine bag of white powder, and other drug paraphernalia.
The night manager sniffed, smelled death, and shuddered. It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed such a sight, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But he had never seen a famous person dead before.
The room was horribly silent, only the street sounds outside broke the oppressive hush.
Gingerly he moved even nearer and peered at Flash, who was open-mouthed, his rotting teeth on show.
With a stealthy movement he tasted a touch of the white powder lying in the half-empty bag next to the bed.
Cocaine.
He pocketed the bag quickly.
Then he looked at the blonde. She was puffy-faced, her skin a mottled purple – there was something vaguely familiar about her.
Police sirens screamed outside and he jumped, wondering if they were going to stop. They didn’t. They faded into the distance, a regular New York sound.
He supposed he had to do something about this mess. Jesus. It would be an all-night gig what with the news interest and everything. The press wer
e probably going to go crazy. In fact, the press were going to want to interview him. For sure.
He looked at the unhappy couple one last time, and picked up the phone.
* * *
The news hit the wire services just in time for the ten o’clock evening news in New York. In Los Angeles it was seven o’clock.
How the media loved a famous death. Even better, a double famous death.
And this one had all the ingredients.
Money.
Sex.
Drugs.
And rock ‘n’ roll.
What more could they ask for?
Chapter One-Hundred-Forty-Two
‘Take your clothes off, chicken,’ Santino ordered.
‘You’d better leave me alone,’ Brigette warned, her eyes dilated with fear.
Santino laughed. He had locked the door and pocketed the key. The real world was shut out and he was alone with this little blonde piece of ass whom he couldn’t wait to stick it to.
Ah . . . but he was not quite alone. Also in the room was the boy. Lucky Santangelo’s son.
If he’d planned it in his most imaginative of dreams he couldn’t have arranged it better.
He took off his jacket and snorted with mirth.
Brigette’s eyes were drawn to the snub-nosed revolver he kept in a shoulder holster strapped to his arm. Her skin crawled and she felt faint as she watched him swagger over to a video camera set on a tripod overlooking the bed and switch it on.
‘Okay, quit stallin’. Get your clothes off,’ he snarled, removing the gun from its holster and pointing it at Roberto, who crouched petrified in a corner. ‘Now, chicken flesh, or the boy’s gonna get it.’
She was weak with terror. This wasn’t happening to her. It was all a horrifying dream.
She began to cry.
‘Move your ass in front of the camera,’ Santino commanded.
Slowly she did as he ordered.
Suddenly Roberto jumped up and ran over to him, pummelling his leg with tiny fists. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ the boy yelled.
Santino shoved the child away with a brutal thrust, sending him skittering across the room.
Brigette’s sobs increased, but that didn’t bother Santino. He fixed her with a lascivious expression. ‘Get ’em off, chicken. Now. Or I’ll shoot this noisy little fucker right in front of your big blue eyes.’
* * *
Donatella drove past the house on Blue Jay Way and recognized Santino’s car at once. She uttered a long stream of Italian curse words and some English ones as well.
Lying, cheating, whore-mongering Casanova basta!
How dare he. HOW DARE HE!
Father of her children, faithful husband – or so he had always sworn. She had given him the best years of her life and he was nothing but a rutting gutter dog.
She parked and squeezed her angry bulk from behind the wheel.
* * *
As Donatella left her Toyota, so the Lincoln pulled up in front of the surveillance truck further up the hill.
Boogie was there to greet Lucky as she jumped from the car. ‘Santino’s in the house with three other men,’ he stated quickly. ‘And there’s a woman inside too. This is how I see it; Caveman and The Guardian cause a diversion at the front, while I enter through the back.’
‘And what will I be doing? Knitting?’ she asked acidly.
‘You should stay in the car. I’ll bring the children safely out. Trust me.’
‘Your scenario stinks,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘You’ll slow me down,’ he pointed out.
‘Bull. I’ll follow. If I get left behind, that’s my fault.’
‘It could get dangerous.’
She stared at him. ‘Do you know me, Boogie? Do you know me at all?’
There was no point in continuing the argument. Nobody told Lucky Santangelo what to do.
‘I’ll brief the guys,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll move.’
* * *
Muttering to herself, Donatella crunched along the short gravel driveway. Before leaving her house she had changed from her housedress into a sombre brown suit, and sturdy high pumps. She had combed her hair and put on scarlet lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Donatella had never mastered the art of applying make-up, and she looked a sight.
Still muttering, she rang the doorbell of the house on Blue Jay Way, where she confidently expected to find her husband in the arms of some filthy cheap prostitute.
* * *
‘Who’s the woman?’ Cavemen questioned, watching Donatella approach the front door.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lucky replied. ‘She’ll be helpful as far as a diversion goes. You’ll enter behind her – stall a confrontation – think of something to keep a dialogue going at the front – while we hit the back.’
‘Does the FBI scam work for you?’ The Guardian asked, flashing his phony ID card.
‘Perfect,’ Lucky said. ‘Go for it, fellas.’ She followed Boogie on his trip into the surrounding underbrush.
* * *
The Hollywood Hills were confusing. So many winding streets, and all with cul-de-sacs and turnings and more winding streets.
Steven had lost Donatella Bonnatti in her yellow Toyota when she turned off Sunset onto Doheny Drive, and now he couldn’t find her.
It didn’t really matter. He would go back to the Bonnatti residence and wait, for he knew what he was going to do to the scum when they finally came face to face.
* * *
‘What the hell is he doing with those kids?’ Eden asked Blackie, who was in her kitchen searching for something to stuff in his slobbering mouth.
Blackie made a non-committal gesture. Today – if only for a few moments – he had possessed a million bucks. What a moment!
He conveniently forgot that today he had also murdered a man. Cold-bloodedly and with malice shot him in the head.
‘You make me sick,’ Eden said, her voice full of disgust. ‘You work for and ass-kiss a man who is lower than dirt.’ She pushed her face toward him. ‘Look what he’s done to me. What do you think of a man who can do this?’
Blackie threw her a cursory glance. ‘Who cares?’ he said, gnawing on a large piece of cheese.
Eden heard the doorbell ring and held her breath . . .
* * *
‘Yeah?’ Zeko said suspiciously, opening up a crack.
Donatella gave the front door a hefty kick, hurting her foot in the process. ‘Whata you do here?’ she demanded. ‘Where you putta my husband?’
Zeko’s mouth hung slackly open. ‘Mrs Bonnatti!’ he stuttered.
‘Yeah. I’ma Mrs Bonnatti. So what? So now I coma inside. Outta my way, you biga oaf.’
Zeko was stumped. What was the boss going to say about this?
He loosened his hold on the door, and failed to notice the two men coming up behind her.
‘FBI,’ one of them said, holding up identification. ‘We’re investigating one of your neighbours. We’d like you to answer a few questions.’
Chapter One-Hundred-Forty-Three
Brigette cowed, naked, in the middle of the big bed. Tears streaked her cheeks. The sick revolting man had touched her, forced her to pose for the camera. And now he was undressing Bobby and cackling with amusement as the little boy kicked and struggled.
She shuddered at the things he threatened next. He had told her in explicit detail what he was going to do to Bobby, as frenziedly he stripped down to his underwear. He wore boxer shorts with hearts on, and his erection poked obscenely at the material.
Bobby was screaming, and the very sound of his anguished cries wrenched at her heart. It was her fault Bobby was here. Her fault.
Santino’s concentration was on the child. He was preparing to commit an act so vile . . . so indecent . . .
* * *
Boogie moved swiftly, silently, down through the cactus, weeds and hillside brush.
Lucky managed to stay close behind him, oblivious to the ove
rhanging bushes and branches that scratched and tore at her face and hands.
They were nearing the back of the house. A large swimming pool spread out before them, and around it were glass doors leading into the house.
‘We’ll bust right through,’ Boogie muttered, drawing his gun. ‘You’ll have the kids back any minute. I promise you Lucky, any minute.’
* * *
‘Mrs Bonnatti?’ Eden questioned, shoving past Zeko and confronting the big woman at the front door.
Donatella peered at her. ‘You gotta my husband here?’ she said loudly. ‘My Santino?’
‘Yes. He’s here,’ replied Eden. ‘But before you see him I think you and I should talk.’
‘He sleepa with you?’ Donatella demanded. ‘You tell me truth.’
The Guardian seized the opportunity to push past Donatella into the house.
‘Wait a min—’ began a confused Zeko. But Caveman, close behind The Guardian, pulled a gun and said, ‘Save your words, shithead. Where are the kids?’
‘Whosa these people?’ shouted Donatella. ‘Whatsa happening?’
‘Just get against the wall and shut up,’ Caveman commanded. He gestured to Eden. ‘You too, sweetheart.’
Blackie came lumbering out of the kitchen. Caveman waved him to join the crowd. Blackie tried to duck back, but Caveman said, ‘One more move and you’re dead, fucker.’ Blackie froze.
An almighty crash came from the back of the house. And then a gunshot.
One.
Two.
Three.
Eight Months Later
*
May 1984
Chapter One-Hundred-Forty-Four
The air in the courtroom was heavy with silence.
Lucky stared into the distance, her black opal eyes mirroring no emotion, although inside she was churning with unbridled anxiety and tension.
The court clerk began to read the form aloud, his voice a nasal whine.
Lucky Page 62
