Goddess of Vengeance (8 page)

‘The janitor at school told us ’bout this midwife downtown,’ M.J. said, extracting a couple of cans of Diet Coke. ‘He told us that for five hundred bucks she’d take care of it. No problem.’ He slid a can across the bar to Bobby.

‘And?’ Bobby said, opening the can.

‘We drove to a rundown house in some shit neighbourhood, where an old Chinese woman took us inside, bundled Sukie into what she called her operation room, an’ demanded the cash.’

‘Jeez! Did you even have it?’

‘Uh-huh. I stole it from my dad’s dresser that mornin’. Had no other way of getting the money.’

‘Then what?’

‘For a start we were both scared shitless.’

‘I bet you were.’

‘Anyway, I handed over the cash an’ waited. After a while the old crone comes walkin’ back into the room where I’m sitting. This time she’s carryin’ a big bucket, an’ in it was the dead baby. She fuckin’
showed
it to me like it was some kinda prize. “You see,” she says – like she’s proud or somethin’. “All done.”’

‘Oh,
fuck
!’

‘Oh, fuck is right. I swear to you it was a sight I’ll never forget. Jesus, Bobby, I threw my guts up.’ M.J. shook his head as if he couldn’t stand remembering, then after a long beat he said, ‘I couldn’t wait t’get us out of there. I got Sukie into the car, but on the way home she started getting major pains. She was bleeding, so I panicked an’ called my dad. He put her in the hospital. I guess he saved her.’ Another long beat. ‘I’ll never forget seein’ that baby,’ M.J. added sadly. ‘It was a boy,
my
boy. The image burned itself into my eyeballs.’

‘I can’t believe you never told me this before.’

‘Too painful, Bobby. I was too ashamed of what I did.’

‘Yeah, I can understand that. But now you gotta tell Cassie, explain how you feel.’

‘No way. She wouldn’t get it,’ M.J. said, vigorously shaking his head. ‘An’ don’t go repeatin’ the story to anyone.’

‘C’mon, man,’ Bobby said. ‘You were a kid – sixteen. You didn’t know any better. You got nothing to feel guilty about.’

‘I guess,’ M.J. said miserably. ‘Only I still get fuckin’ sick when I think about what we did. It wasn’t right, it simply wasn’t right.’

‘I get it,’ Bobby said sympathetically.

‘It’s somethin’ I gotta live with.’ M.J. said, adding a determined, ‘But believe this – I’ll
never
let it happen again.’

‘Then you
gotta
tell your wife,’ Bobby insisted. ‘She’ll do the right thing when she hears your story.’

‘You don’t know Cassie.’

‘
Make
her listen to you. Seems to me you got no choice.’

Chapter Seven

L
unch was a daily ritual for Armand. He always selected a different restaurant and a different luncheon guest, and he always made sure to pick up the check. Armand had no wish to be beholden to anyone. He was in charge, and let nobody doubt it.

Today he was anticipating his luncheon engagement more than usual, because today his guest was Martin Constantine, and how satisfying it would be to sit across the table from Martin and reflect on his morning activities with Martin’s lovely, unfaithful, whore-like wife.

Martin and he had come up against each other in various business deals, and usually Armand managed to come out on top. But the last deal they’d both been trying to close had gone in Martin’s favour, and that infuriated Armand. Hence the assignation with Martin’s wife. A satisfying punishment toward his business rival. And the secret knowledge that he’d had her in every sexual position he could think of.

Martin Constantine was a puffy-faced New Yorker in his sixties, with ruddy cheeks, a weak chin, and red-rimmed eyes. Martin Constantine was also a billionaire, although Armand suspected on paper only.

The two men shook hands and settled into a corner table. Martin had come to the lunch only because he was curious to find out what Armand wanted. It had to be something, for the two of them were hardly best friends, more like polite enemies. Not that Martin considered Armand polite – actually he couldn’t stand the man. He abhorred the way Armand swaggered around town always with a different woman on his arm – the way he attempted to give everyone the impression that his real-estate holdings were the cream, and that everyone else’s were inferior. As far as Martin was concerned, Constantine Holdings could buy and sell Jordan Developments and not even notice.

Lunch was uneventful. Small talk. Business talk. A derisive chat about Donald Trump’s television career, and how neither of them would ever sink that low. Reality television was for peasants, not for men of substance.

Armand was under the distinct impression that Martin would give his left ball for the public recognition of a Donald Trump whom he very much admired, but he would never admit it.

Over coffee, Armand contemplated telling Martin about his morning activities. He had an urge to do so, but then he realized it was more prudent to wait until he needed something from Martin.

‘How is your beautiful wife?’ he asked, when they stood up to leave.
I fucked her this morning. I shoved my cock up her tight ass while she screamed like a banshee. I violated her in every way I could. She loved it. I did things to her that you would never dare.

‘Nona is a fantastic woman,’ Martin boasted. ‘I am so fortunate to have found her. She is the light of my life.’ He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘You should try marriage sometime, it might surprise you, being with one woman.’

‘Ah yes,’ Armand replied, keeping a straight face, because he’d discovered that before Martin had ‘found’ Nona, she was working as a call girl in Amsterdam. Armand had his spies. ‘I am certain that marriage is an honourable institution.’

They shook hands and parted company. Armand got into his Mercedes smiling to himself. What an old fool Martin Constantine was. He’d divorced his wife of thirty years and married a call girl.

The satisfaction was in the not telling.

And Armand would not tell. Not until it suited him.

*   *   *

Later in the day Armand summoned Fouad to his study. ‘Developments regarding The Keys?’ he demanded, leaning back in his leather desk chair, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desktop.

Fouad paused a moment before answering. He knew Armand was preparing to throw one of his screaming fits. With the news he was about to deliver there was no avoiding it.

‘Unfortunately—’ Fouad began.

Armand glared at him. ‘Unfortunately?’ he questioned, his eyes becoming narrow slits. ‘Did you say unfortunately?’

‘Indeed I did,’ Fouad said, small beads of sweat decorating his forehead. ‘Because,
unfortunately
, I have learned that The Keys is not for sale.’

There was a long moment of deadly silence before Armand began to yell.

‘What do you mean it’s not for sale?’ he shouted, banging his fist on his desk. ‘Everything is for sale. Every person, every building, every damn thing in the world.’

Fouad remained silent. There was nothing else he could say.

‘Who told you it’s not for sale?’ Armand continued. ‘What fool uttered those asinine words?’

‘The owner’s lawyer, Jeffrey Lonsdale.’

‘What
owner?
’ Armand said with a sneer. ‘The Keys would not have an
owner
. The Keys would belong to a company. And that company should be prepared to sell. To me. I will pay whatever it takes, Fouad. Do you hear me? Whatever it takes.’

Typical Armand behaviour, Fouad thought. Show him something he can’t have, and he will move heaven and earth to get it. Fouad recalled the case of the exquisite baby-faced call girl Armand had used on occasion. One night he required her services, and it turned out she had left the business and married a rock star. Armand was incensed. He wanted her and he would have her, so he’d devised a complicated plan which involved setting the rock star up with a paid-for call girl, making sure Baby-Face walked in on her cheating husband, and then flying her to New York for a reunion fuck. It had cost him plenty, but to him it was well worth it.

‘The Keys is owned by a private company. And the company belongs to a woman, Lucky Santangelo,’ Fouad said. ‘I spoke with her lawyer, who informed me there is no way she is prepared to sell, whatever the price.’

‘A woman,’ Armand said disdainfully. ‘A mere woman.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I can see I will have to deal with this matter myself. Tomorrow I go to Akramshar for my father’s birthday, and upon my return we will travel to Vegas or wherever this Lucky Santangelo woman is, and you will watch me convince her to sell me The Keys. Set up a meeting. And find out everything there is to know. Sometimes, Fouad, I wonder at your ineptitude. It seems there are times that if I don’t do it myself, nothing gets done. Perhaps marrying an American woman has blunted your business acumen. Your wife addles your brain – such as it is.’

Once again Armand was making disparaging remarks about Fouad’s marriage. It infuriated Fouad, and one day in the not so distant future, he knew he would have to leave Armand’s employ. But, until that day came, he would simply be forced to suffer the insults aimed at his wife and marriage in silence.

‘It is done, Armand,’ he said, always calm, always polite. ‘I will make sure all arrangements are put in place for us to fly to Las Vegas.’

‘The Presidential Suite at The Keys,’ Armand stated. ‘And you will see – soon it will be all mine.’

Chapter Eight

I
t was noon when Frankie Romano hauled himself out of his oversized bed with its clichéd black satin sheets, and regarded himself in the mirror above his bathroom sink. He considered himself a good-looking sonofabitch. Not in the classically handsome sense, but he had an edgy style and plenty of attitude, plus he knew how to present himself. And he certainly knew how to score with the ladies. Oh
yes
! Frankie Romano was a first-class cocksman, and nobody could argue that.

Last night he’d mega-scored with Cookie, Gerald M.’s sexy little offspring. A teenager with real tits and real enthusiasm. Not some tired old twenty-something Hollywood blonde who’d had more hot cocks than hot dinners. Oh no, Cookie was something else – a real prize.

Frankie made his way into the living room of his apartment – all chrome and leather furniture, the full-length windows overlooking the Sunset Strip. He laid out a couple of lines of coke on his mirrored coffee table and rolled a twenty-dollar bill.

Was he living the dream or what? After splitting with his longtime live-in – Annabelle Maestro – he’d figured he was done for a while. But after watching Annabelle shine as a TV personality, he’d gotten pissed and reconnected with Rick Greco – a former teen idol who’d parlayed his dead career into a successful gig as a club promoter. ‘We gotta open a club together,’ he’d informed Rick. ‘We can fuckin’ own this town between the two of us. Who do you think got Bobby Santangelo’s New York club off the ground? It was fuckin’ me, man. All me.’

Which was not at all the truth, but what did he care? Frankie could spin a masterful story. The truth was he’d been a deejay in Bobby’s club, and that was about it. He’d also had a lucrative sideline selling overpriced designer drugs, and then there was the very successful business he’d created with Annabelle, running call girls. Unfortunately everything eventually had crashed and burned. Luckily he was Frankie Romano, therefore nothing fazed him.

Rick Greco had taken to the idea of going into business with Frankie. Frankie had a big mouth and a big personality, and that’s what the club business needed – a front man who knew everyone and made them feel important.

Frankie didn’t know everyone, but he was a fast learner, and he certainly knew the club business. So Rick had put together a group of investors, hence the birth of River. It was a new club, but Frankie was determined to make it as successful as Mood in New York and Vegas. Screw Bobby and M.J. They’d both deserted him just when he’d needed them. Bobby all cosy with his Deputy D.A. girlfriend, and M.J. with his hot sexy little wife. Fuck ’em both.

Unfortunately Rick had not made him a full partner. Rick had come up with the weak excuse that since Frankie wasn’t putting up any money, it was not possible. So he’d had to settle for a percentage. But he’d soon figured out a way to make his own personal score.