A fat old black woman waddled into sight. Obviously she was the cleaner. With her was a small, bright-eyed black child.
‘We don’ deal with no Samsons Linens,’ the old woman said with an impatient snort. ‘So you all kin git that basket outta here fast as you got it in. Unnerstand me, boy?’
He glanced at his watch. Shit! a voice screamed in his head. Shit! Shit! Shit! Be smart and get your ass out.
But something made him hesitate. He couldn’t leave them. They were his people.
Jesus! What was the matter with him? Was he getting soft?
‘Well, ma’am,’ he said calmly, ‘if you’ll be kind enough to step outside with me, maybe you can tell that to the driver, ’cos he ain’t gonna listen to me.’
The old woman viewed him suspiciously, then she said to the child, ‘You stay here, Vera May. Don’t you touch nothin’, you hear?’
Christ! Now he was really sweating. Time was running out, and what could he do? Tell the truth? No, the old crone wouldn’t believe him. Anyway, there wasn’t time.
On impulse he scooped the kid up and started to run back the way he had come in. The child began to yell.
Leroy glanced behind him. Waving her arms in a panic, the old woman careened after them.
In his head he began the countdown—sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight. There was no time to take the van now. It would have to go up with the rest of the building. Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three. Outside at last.
‘Shut up,’ he muttered to the screaming kid. The old woman would be out soon. Get at least a block away.
He ran down the street clutching the child, and behind him he heard the old woman screeching, ‘Stop that man, stop him—he’s got my Vera May, my baby!’
Passersby turned to look at him, but nobody tried to detain him. This was New York; people were not stupid.
At the corner he paused. Any second now.
He placed the child on the pavement. ‘You stay right here,’ he commanded.
In the distance he saw the old woman getting closer.
Without hesitating he sprinted off in the direction of the subway entrance, annoyed at his own foolishness.
Within seconds he heard the explosion. Glancing back, he noticed the woman and kid were together, frozen in shock, while people around them ran back toward the noise.
Ducking down the stairs to the subway, he went straight to the men’s room, where he got rid of the Samsons Linens T-shirt, the hat, and the shades.
It had been a good morning’s work. It would certainly scare the shit out of the Bassalino family. And Dukey K. Williams would be more than pleased.
Leroy was satisfied. Nobody could beat him when it came to doing things right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Angelo didn’t know what it was. It was a feeling that twisted his gut and stayed in his head. Rio Java. Rio Java. All he could think about was Rio Java. Was this love? he thought to himself bitterly.
This couldn’t be love, this nagging, persistent obsession.
Rio Java was not a beautiful woman; she wasn’t even a particulary young woman. She was just a freak. A tall, randy, red Indian fuckin’ freak.
He made up his mind to forget her.
Enzio phoned from New York to inform him there was trouble all over, there had been certain threats. It was best that Angelo not go around unprotected.
‘Aw, c’mon,’ Angelo bitched. ‘Nobody’s gonna come after me.’ His father talked like an old gangster movie.
‘Read the newspapers, you dumb little cocksucker, there’s hits happenin’ everywhere. You’re my son, so that makes you a target. I’m havin’ the Stevestos assign a man to you.’
Angelo groaned. ‘Listen—’
‘No, you listen,’ Enzio said coldly. I’m gettin’ reports of you being drunk, bumming around. Straighten your ass or I’ll haul you back here. You want that?’
Angelo swallowed an angry reply. He liked it in London. The more distance between himself and his family the better. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll get myself together,’ he promised.
‘You’d better,’ Enzio warned.
A man called Shifty Fly was commissioned to protect him. It infuriated Angelo that he had to be followed and accompanied everywhere.
Shifty Fly looked like his name. He was small, with watery, darting eyes and a thin, downturned mouth. Under the crabby gray suit he wore rested a shoulder holster and a concealed gun.
‘This is a joke,’ Angelo complained to Eddie Ferrantino.
Eddie’s cold eyes flicked over Angelo, marvelling yet again that this bearded asshole was Enzio Bassalino’s son. ‘Just do as your father says, be a good little boy, huh?’
Fuck the ‘little boy’ jazz. Angelo was sick of it. First Rio and now Eddie. Who the frig did they think they were?
He took out his various girlfriends and gave it to them regularly. There were no complaints.
He forced himself not to contact Rio. She was a bad scene, and even he knew enough not to ask for more.
He couldn’t hold out. He called her.
‘Hey, Rio, this is Angelo.’
‘Angelo who?’
Bitch! ‘Angelo Bassalino.’
Her voice was cool. ‘Let me see now, I don’t think I remember an Angelo Bassalino…’
He laughed, full of false bravado. ‘Stop kidding around. I thought you might like dinner.’
‘I always like dinner. In fact, I have it every night.’ A long pause. ‘Do you have it every night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then why don’t you run off and have it now?’
She hung up on him. The bitch hung up!
He sent her flowers, something he had never done. She sent them back when they were dead with a short note: ‘Hey—isn’t it funny—does everything you handle go limp?’
He found that although he was able to service all his girlfriends, it was virtually impossible for him to reach a climax. He remained hard as a rock, ready to go forever, never reaching the final destination. It was causing him great physical discomfort. When the hard-on vanished he was left with a pain in his gut that lasted all night.
Apart from that aggravation, there was Shifty Fly always close at hand. Foul-mouthed and slimy, he trailed Angelo everywhere.
* * *
Rio was pleased with the way things were going. She’d always possessed the power of grabbing men sexually. Larry Bolding had been one of the few exceptions, and that was because he was shit-scared of his wife, political career, and spotless reputation.
Boy, could she blow the whistle on his spotless reputation. Oh yeah, she could really make him squirm.
It was days since she’d returned the flowers to Angelo. Now the time was ripe. Picking up the phone, she called him.
Angelo groped for the receiver in his sleep. ‘Yeah?’ he said in a muffled voice.
‘Listen, stud,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time I taught you how to really get it on?’
He was silent, trying to gather his thoughts.
‘Last chance, sweetheart,’ she said mockingly. ‘So why don’t you get your fine ass over here quick, an’ I’ll show you tricks you ain’t never gonna forget!’
By the time he was properly awake she’d hung up. It was past midnight. Throwing on some pants and a shirt, he ducked out the back entrance. This was one scene Shifty Fly wasn’t going to be following him to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lara paced her living room, smoking agitatedly. It was early; light was just beginning to seep through the darkness. New York was taking shape outside.
Why did I ever become involved? she thought.
Nick was asleep in the bedroom. Why did it have to be Nick?
Her hand shook slightly as she dragged on the cigarette, realizing that she didn’t want to take it any further. Nick was not responsible for things his father did. Dukey K. Williams was right, and Rio, with her insane plans, all wrong. Much as she had loved Margaret, her sister was dead, and no amount of revenge c
ould bring her back. If Enzio Bassalino was the man responsible, then let Dukey deal with him in the way he wanted to.
Oh, God! How had she ever gotten into this? A few hours earlier she and Nick had left Le Club.
‘Your place or my hotel?’ he’d asked intently.
Lightheaded from too much champagne, she’d replied, ‘My place.’
They’d started to kiss in the car, all over each other like a couple of high-school kids.
‘Baby, baby, you make me crazy,’ he’d said, guiding her hand to the bulge in his pants that lent truth to his statement.
For a moment she’d been overcome with guilt—because she was enjoying his touch, and there was no way she was supposed to enjoy it. But once they reached her apartment her guilt melted away in his arms as he ripped the nine-hundred-dollar black dress off her and made love to her on the floor.
Later he’d carried her into the bedroom, and it had happened one more time before she’d fallen asleep.
Now she was awake, pacing up and down like an agitated cat.
Was it possible to fall in love with someone you were supposed to hate?
‘How about some coffee, princess?’ Nick walked into the living room, startling her. He was naked. His body lean, hard, and tanned.
Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her close and slowly began pushing her negligee off her shoulders, sliding it down her body.
With great anticipation she leaned her head back—all the better to catch his kisses. It had never been this way with anyone before, this pure physical pull. There had always been reasons why she’d gone to bed with men. Hard-hitting, down-to-earth reasons.
With Nick it wasn’t like that. Oh, there was a reason, all right. But it didn’t matter anymore, it wasn’t important.
He lifted her easily and carried her back to the bedroom. ‘You, lady, are beautiful. I mean really beautiful. You know what I’m sayin?’
Yes, she knew what he was saying. She also knew that soon the morning papers would arrive. And how would he feel then?
* * *
Beth stayed with the Bassalino children. She felt sick and scared. If anything happened to Anna Maria’s baby, it was all her fault, and that was unthinkable.
Frank phoned in the morning. His voice sounded funny. ‘Pack up and get out of there,’ he instructed her harshly. ‘Do it now. I don’t want to find you around when I get back.’
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘The baby?’
There was silence for a moment, and then Frank’s voice cold and loud. ‘Get the fuck out of my house, you whore. An’ don’t leave no forwarding address, ’cos if I ever set eyes on you again, I’m gonna kill you.’ He slammed the phone down.
Beth recoiled in shock. It was over. Whatever it was, it was over. She was free. Now she could go home.
With an unsteady hand she picked up the phone and dialed information, obtaining the number of the hospital.
‘I’m inquiring after Mrs. Frank Bassalino. She was admitted early this morning. I’m a relative. Is she doing okay?’
The operator’s voice sounded apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, we cannot give out information over the phone.’
Of course not, she thought bitterly. Hurrying to her room, she packed her few things. Minutes later she stepped outside the house. Relief swept over her. Soon she could return to her daughter Chyna and the commune. First she had to find out about Anna Maria.
A bus dropped her half a block away from the hospital. She was terrified of bumping into Frank, but her fear was overcome by a desperate need to know.
‘Mrs. Bassalino died at eight A.M.,’ a nurse told her. ‘Complications with the position of the baby, and other things…’ The nurse trailed off. ‘Are you a close friend? I think Dr. Rogers might like to speak to you.’
‘And the baby?’
‘Everything possible was done, but I’m afraid…’
Beth turned and ran.
The nurse started after her. ‘Please wait, if you can help us at all—’
Beth kept running. She didn’t stop until she reached Grand Central Station, where she bought herself a ticket home.
Before boarding the train she phoned Cass. ‘I guess it’s what you all wanted,’ she said bitterly. ‘But how does it help Margaret? It certainly doesn’t bring her back, does it?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They were making love.
‘You’re getting better all the time.’ Rio finally threw a compliment his way. ‘Maybe I was wrong about you.’
Angelo rode the wave. He was in control. Like a car that has been perfectly tuned, he crested each bump and hill and didn’t falter.
The Stones mumbled hornily on background stereo. It was early evening, and things had been going successfully all afternoon.
‘Let’s take a break for food,’ Rio announced. ‘I’ve got a friend who’ll bring over anything we want.’ Rolling away from him, she lifted the phone.
Angelo lay back triumphant. He could go as long as she wanted him to. King Stud.
‘Yeah, you can bring Peaches,’ Rio purred into the receiver. ‘I’m certain there’s plenty to go around. Sure. See you soon. Bye.’ She flopped back on the bed. ‘Food’s on its way. How about an appetizer, babe?’
Angelo thought about phoning the casino to let them know he wasn’t coming in tonight. What the hell—it would only bring Shifty Fly running to station himself outside, and who needed that?
‘I’m ready,’ he said confidently.
‘Great!’
Rio liked popping ammis. Soon she was breaking open another glass vial and forcing it under her nose.
He breathed in deeply, feeling the effect down to his toenails.
‘You know, you’re not too bad,’ she murmured, sliding across his body, straddling his neck with her long legs. ‘But Jesus Christ, your beard is itchy!’
* * *
Enzio paced the private room at the hospital, his face a grim mask.
Frank sat in a chair, his head buried in his hands.
Enzio muttered in Italian, occasionally throwing words of contempt in his son’s direction.
Dr. Rogers entered the room. He was a weary, bespectacled man with receding hair and a slight build.
Enzio clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Doctor, we know you did all you could, you mustn’t blame yourself.’
Dr. Rogers shook Enzio’s hand away. ‘I don’t blame myself,’ he said indignantly. ‘Not at all, Mr. Bassalino.’ He turned to glare at Frank. ‘I’m afraid that poor girl was very badly beaten. The baby had no chance, it was—’
‘She fell down the stairs,’ Frank interrupted, stone-faced. ‘I told you that before. She fell.’
‘Mr. Bassalino, your wife’s internal injuries were not consistent with falling down stairs. She was beaten, and that’s what will have to go on the death certificate.’ His voice was full of barely concealed disgust. ‘I’m sure there will have to be an inquiry.’
Enzio approached the doctor. ‘Are you a family man, Doc?’ he asked, very friendly.
‘Yes,’ the doctor replied shortly.
‘Pretty wife? Nice kiddies?’
‘I don’t see what this has to do—’
‘Plenty,’ Enzio said. ‘As a family man, you can understand the occasional little tiff. Y’know what I mean—lovers’ quarrel, that kind of thing. Happens all the time, don’t it, Doc?’
‘What has this got to do with anything?’ the doctor asked stiffly.
‘Well, y’see, my boy—he’s a man suffering. Now, you wouldn’t wanna make it any worse for him, wouldja, Doc?’
‘Mr. Bassalino, I have a duty to perform.’
‘Sure you do, an’ believe me, I’m not trying to stop you. I think you doctors do a wonderful job. And yet you’re underpaid. It’s shockin’. A crime, really. I mean, here you are workin’ your asses off, an’ what do you get? Hardly enough to keep your wife looking pretty.’ Enzio took a beat. ‘You know what I mean, huh? I’m an old man, but I still appr
eciate a pretty face.’ A meaningful pause. ‘It would be a shame if your wife lost hers.’ He fumbled in his pocket, producing a wad of bills carelessly held together with a rubber band. ‘Here’s a thousand dollars, Doc, somethin’ to help you out.’
Dr. Rogers hesitated as Enzio thrust the money toward him.
‘Take it,’ Enzio said, his voice mild. ‘Keep your wife pretty.’
* * *
By the time the papers were delivered Nick had fallen back to sleep.
Lara scanned them quickly. In the gossip column of one was the item she had known would be there. The writer—a bitchy woman columnist—had put it together as only a bitch could:
How does glamorous star of the forties, still-frisky April Crawford, do it? Married four times, she is about to take el plunge-o five with handsome, thirtyish Nick Bassalino, a Los Angeles businessman, say those in the know. However, someone should tell Nick, for when last seen, he was boarding a plane for New York with gorgeous Lara Crichton, a stunning jet-setter of twenty-six. Last report had them dancing cheek-to-cheek, among other things, at New York’s chicest discotheque, Le Club.
There was a picture of Lara taken in Acapulco for a Harpers Bazaar layout, looking incredible in a one-piece white swimsuit. There was also a picture of April leaving a film premiere. She looked tired. Oh, well, Lara thought ruefully—good-bye April. The movie star would never stand for Nick making a public fool of her.
What now? Where did it leave her and Nick?
It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t known it would be like this. She hadn’t counted on actually falling in love.
Was one night of incredible sex, love?
Maybe, maybe not. He was so different from all the other men she’d known. He was masculine and sexual. There was nothing phony about Nick Bassalino. He was just as he was.
Angry at herself, she took the paper in the bedroom and tossed it at him. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she said flatly. ‘And I think it’s going to make April mad as hell.’
* * *
Rio fixed fantastic drinks. Rum, brown sugar, eggs, cream, Benedictine, all mixed together in the blender. When the doorbell rang she told Angelo to stay in bed, she would get it. Naked, except for the stiletto heels she always liked to wear, she marched off.
The Love Killers Page 11
