The Love Killers (10 page)

Rio had never been to London before, but she had friends eagerly awaiting her arrival. There was Peaches, the gloriously stunning blond model who had once been a man. And Perry Hernando, a gay Mexican singer who prowled London every so often looking for new talent. Rio had known them both in her Billy Express days.

They came to her rented apartment accompanied by a host of others. They brought champagne with them and smoked some incredible grass supplied by a middle-aged American lady in low-cut black. Then in cars and taxis they took Rio triumphantly to Tramp, the only place to go in London, according to Peaches and Hernando.

It was exactly where Rio wanted to be. Tramp, she'd found out, was the club where Angelo Bassalino put in a nightly appearance with his lady of the week.

After some deep-dish research she knew most of his movements and habits. At the moment he was currently screwing a bit-part actress, also a married woman with four children and a rich husband, and a female blackjack dealer from one of the casinos where he worked.

Angelo Bassalino liked women. Any shape, size, or color. He was not particular.

Rio had no set plan of action. She was confident that whatever she wished to do was possible. She knew people, and she knew she was able to get into their heads if she wanted to. It would be easy deciding what had to be done to destroy Angelo.

She wished she could have dealt with all three of Enzio Bassalino's sons—Frank, Nick,
and
Angelo. It was her plan. She should never have told anyone; she could have done it alone without any help. What did Lara and Beth know about beating someone mentally, reducing him to a wreck, finding the one chink and pressing, pressing until it gave way?

Bullshit! They knew how to get a guy in the sack and that was it. Not like Margaret; she could have done it. Margaret was capable of anything.

Rio remembered their first meeting. It was winter, and so cold she could recall how she'd first thought of setting her apartment building on fire. An insane thought, but at the time she was ready for any way to kill herself.

What a way to go! One big glorious blaze. But then she'd thought about all the other people living there, and what use would a good-bye note for Larry Bolding be if it went up in flames? She wanted him to suffer. Her plan was to ruin him and his whole stinking political career.

She had made her face up very carefully, an extravaganza of exotic color. Then she'd put on a long red Halston dress. After all, she was a superstar—she certainly wasn't going to creep out.

She was high. A little acid to help her on the ultimate trip. By three o'clock in the morning she was ready to go. First some incredible sounds on the stereo—loud—then she'd used the razor that Larry kept at her place. He didn't like electric ones.

She slid the fresh blade out and cut a deep line along the inside of her right wrist, then her left. It didn't hurt; the sudden gush of blood was beautiful, it matched her dress.

She was laughing. It was the best she'd felt for months. No hang-ups, no worries, no anything.

She was still laughing when she passed out, the blood pumping out of her cut wrists onto the pure white carpet.

It was all hazy after that. Margaret's face, very close and concerned. A feeling of movement, of being carried. Voices—muffled and far away.

And after that the awakening—how many days later? Two? Three? Margaret Lawrence Brown sitting at a table writing, her long black hair propped back from a strong face by tinted glasses.

Rio couldn't move. She was in a strange bed in a strange room, and her arms were bandaged up to the elbows.

‘Hey,' she managed, causing Margaret to look up at her, a direct-confrontation stare. She wore no makeup, and her face was not beautiful, not even pretty. But it was a face of such enormous warmth and attractiveness that Rio was immediately drawn to her. It was a strange feeling, because what the hell, she didn't even want to be in the world anymore.

Margaret smiled slightly and got up. Tall, small-bosomed in a loose T-shirt and Levi's. ‘I guess you're going to make it,' she'd said in a gravelly voice. ‘It didn't look like it for a while, but I had a feeling you'd survive. I'm Margaret, I live next door, and I happened to get blasted out of bed by your musical choice. Since you're usually so quiet, I came over to investigate. You would have made a devastating picture for the newspapers—the red dress and the blood and the white rug. It was almost a shame to save you. Only think about it—you can't pull that kind of shit over a guy!' Margaret had shaken her head in disbelief. ‘Larry Bolding's an asshole. Baby, I don't even know him, but I'm here to tell you he's a prick. And we do not—I repeat, do
not
—kill ourselves over pricks.'

Margaret never lost any time in making a point.

Rio stayed with Margaret in her apartment for two weeks before moving back to her own place. She learned more in those two weeks than she had in a lifetime.

Margaret was that rare exception, a truly selfless person. She wanted nothing out of life except to do good for others. She gave her time, her energy, her money to any cause she found worthy. And she had a biting, furious anger at the way women were treated as second-class citizens. She wanted to change things, and she didn't just sit around talking about it like most people; she went out and did what she could.

* * *

In the dim recesses of Tramp Rio recognized Angelo Bassalino when he came in. She scrutinized him with a strong and steady gaze. He was with a skinny little blonde.

Rio had no plans to waste time. She walked directly over to his table and sat herself down.

‘Hey, Angelo,' she said tauntingly. ‘What's all this shit I hear about you being the best fuck in town?'

Enzio Bassalino placed three phone calls. In order of importance he spoke to Frank in New York first.

‘I'm thinking of coming in,' he stated. ‘How's the climate?'

Frank realized his father was not referring to the weather. ‘The same,' he replied, his voice guarded. He knew for a fact that the FBI had a tap on his phone.

‘I'll come in anyway,' Enzio growled. ‘The usual hotel, the usual setup—arrange it.'

‘It's not the right time.' Frank tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Why did his goddamn father always have to interfere?

‘I want to see the grandchildren.' Enzio was stubborn. ‘At the same time we can clear up some other matters. You know what I mean?'

‘Yeah. I know what you mean.' Frank knew exactly what he meant. He meant the panic that was going on over the bombing of the Magic Lantern restaurant.

Frank had everything in hand. He was calling meetings and finding out hard facts. He didn't need any help.

At first he had thought Bosco Sam, or maybe the Crowns were responsible. But the information he'd collected pointed against them.

Tomassio Vitorelli, Frank's counselor, had been meeting with an informant at the Magic Lantern the night the bomb had exploded. Unfortunate for poor Tomassio.

‘Okay, so arrange it. I'll be in tomorrow,' Enzio said impatiently. ‘International, three o'clock. Tell Anna Maria to start cooking.' He hung up, well aware that Frank was annoyed. Enzio knew his oldest son thought he could handle everything himself. But what was wrong with a little insurance? What was wrong with Enzio Bassalino showing his face in New York?

Enzio had found out the Crown gang were trying to move in on several Bassalino territories. They weren't succeeding, however, they were causing certain problems. What with that and the protection business, he knew it was time he paid a visit. He was sure with him in town those problems would soon cease. Perhaps a personal meeting with Rizzo Crown would fix things. They went back many years together, so why not?

Finished with Frank, he telephoned Nick in Los Angeles. ‘What's happening?' he asked, always his opening question.

Nick gave him a short rundown.

‘Fine, fine.' Enzio coughed and spat into an ashtray on his desk, a habit that did not endear him to his staff. ‘I'm going to New York tomorrow—it might not be a bad idea for you to fly in for a couple of days. We'll have a family meeting.'

‘Why?' Nick didn't like leaving the Coast. He didn't like his suntan suffering for even one day.

‘It might be advisable,' Enzio said. ‘I'll let you know.'

‘Jesus,' Nick muttered.

‘What's the matter with you?' Enzio boomed. ‘Can't you leave the old broad for two days? What's she got, a direct line to your balls?'

‘If it's necessary, I'll be there,' Nick said, giving in without a fight. Maybe a trip to New York wasn't such a bad idea. It just might be the perfect opportunity to get something together with Lara that April couldn't find out about.

‘Okay, okay, I'll let you know,' Enzio said, hanging up.

Nick was a stupid boy. Any man was dumb if he let a woman tie his balls together. Enzio had always prided himself on being very clever about the female sex. A piece was a piece, and there was plenty around. ‘Use them before they use you' had always been his motto. Once they became clingy and demanding, that was the time to get rid of them.

Mary Ann August wriggled into his study. Clad in her customary bikini with puffs of teased blond hair, she stood silently picking off her nail polish until he said a curt ‘Yeah? What is it?'

‘Alio's here,' she singsonged. ‘Out by the pool. He wants a sandwich, and the cook's out. What shall I do?'

‘So make him a sandwich,' Enzio said irritably, delaying his call to Angelo.

‘What kind?' she asked blankly.

‘How the hell do I know? Ask him.' Mary Ann was beginning to piss him off. Sometimes big boobs were not enough.

‘There's cheese, I guess,' she said vaguely. ‘Or cucumber. Do you think he'd like cucumber?'

‘What am I? A chef?' Enzio stormed. ‘Get outta here, ya dumb broad. I gotta make a call.'

Mary Ann left quickly. She knew when to make herself scarce.

It would have been nice, Enzio mused, if Rose had not gone insane and locked herself away. An old-style wife was irreplaceable. A woman who knew her position in life and kept it. It would have been far more convenient to stash his mistresses in separate apartments, visiting them only when necessary, putting up with their ridiculous chatter only when he had to.

But it was too lonely without anyone. He needed to share his bed. Sometimes he had nightmares, dreams from which he awoke shaking and cold around the heart. At those times he reached out for human contact; he desperately needed the security of another body nearby.

Enzio worried about his health. What if his heart should fail and no one was near? He had suffered one attack three years before. The doctors had assured him he was fine now, better than before.

Still… What did doctors know? He didn't trust any of them.

It wouldn't be a bad idea, he decided, to replace Mary Ann in New York. Her time was almost up.

Phoning London, he was aggravated because he could not get hold of Angelo. His son wasn't at the casino nor at his home. The boy was out screwing, Enzio thought with a snort. He smiled, the proud father. At Angelo's age he'd been just the same.

Ah… At Angelo's age he'd had the world by the balls. Prohibition, Chicago, a different kind of time, a world of crazy excitement and thrills. Once the Bassalino name had rated alongside Capone, Legs Diamond, O'Banion. Enzio sighed with pleasure when he remembered the early days with Alio by his side. It was all so different now, everything hidden under a cloak of legitimacy. Crime was getting dull.

Enzio chuckled and strolled out to the pool, still laughing. He wondered if Alio would remember the time they'd tried to bribe the chef of their favorite Italian restaurant. They'd wanted him to put arsenic in an archrival's soup. The chef had refused and fled the city, and to this day Enzio still missed the coward's incredible meatballs.

They met on the plane like conspirators, Nick warily checking the first-class section for friends of his or April's. Only after he'd done this and found all was clear did he condescend to join Lara.

She was dressed all in white and looked ravishingly beautiful. He decided the risk was well worth taking, even though she'd steadfastly refused to meet him in Los Angeles, giving him an ultimatum—her or April.

There was no way he could possibly choose. He was going to
marry
April. Lara had turned up at the wrong time. Sure, he wanted to get her into bed, but he wasn't prepared to risk his future, and his future was most definitely April Crawford.

Enzio had suggested the New York trip at just the right moment. Nick mentioned to Lara he had to go and hinted she should come. Surprisingly, she'd said yes.

‘April mustn't find out,' he'd warned, and for a change she'd agreed with him.

‘We'll do it your way,' she'd said calmly.

Over the weeks they'd enjoyed an ongoing flirtation—bumping into each other at parties, restaurants, and clubs. The more he'd seen of her, the more he'd wanted her. Now he was going to get his wish.

He had the situation well covered. They'd arrived at the airport separately, boarded the plane separately, and they would disembark separately. Who could possibly find out they were traveling together?

Lara had her own apartment in New York. Nick planned to stay at the hotel with Enzio. He figured New York was a big place; you could get lost there. It wasn't a nosy little city like Los Angeles, where you couldn't even take a piss without everyone knowing.

All he wanted was a chance to be with Lara without the anxiety of April catching them together. One or two days should be long enough to get her out of his system. It was just sex—pure, unadulterated lust. Yeah, she was gorgeous, and well connected in her own way, but she wasn't April. April Crawford was a star. Something he had no intention of forgetting.