The Love Killers (11 page)

* * *

Frank was a demanding man. After the first night he came to Beth's room as soon as he arrived home. It was always late, and Anna Maria slept soundly.

He silenced Beth's objections, reassuring her that his wife was a heavy sleeper and would not wake up.

Beth accepted him in the dark, old-fashioned room above the kitchen. She accepted his kisses and embraces, the fumbling way he made love. In spite of the revulsion he produced in her, she felt sorry for him. Frank Bassalino stood for everything she loathed, and yet there was a certain loneliness in the man that caught her sympathy. Maybe it was the cruel joke nature had played on him; it made him vulnerable. It also explained why he needed a girl like her, a girl he thought was inexperienced, and who therefore could make no criticism or comparison.

She lived up to his expectations. She was soft, warm, and appreciative, feigning a childlike innocence that seemed to fascinate him.

He bought her little presents. One night a cheap charm bracelet, the next a pound of strawberries, which he proceeded to eat.

He was a selfish lover, satisfying himself and forgetting about her. It never took him very long—a five-minute routine that didn't vary. He liked her to be in bed waiting. He insisted she wear her long white nightgown. First he would fondle her breasts for a few minutes, then suck at her nipples until he was ready to mount her. A few thrusts and it was over.

By the end of the week he was already talking of finding her an apartment.

By the end of the week she had already planned how she would arrange to have Anna Maria discover them together.

* * *

Lara called Cass as soon as she arrived at her apartment in New York. ‘I'm making progress,' she said. ‘April should find out about us in the morning paper.'

‘Are you sure you're all right?' Cass asked anxiously.

‘Perfect,' Lara assured her confidently. ‘Once April discovers he flew here with me, he's out. The woman is too proud to accept seconds. The funny thing is I haven't slept with him.' She paused. ‘How's Beth?'

‘I don't know. I spoke to her and she seemed disturbed. I want her to quit. I told her so, but she won't listen. I'm worried.'

‘Yes, she's so young.' Lara said, thinking of the sister she hardly knew. ‘I think we have to insist that she drop out of the whole thing. After all, she does have a child at the commune, and the important thing is to persuade her that little Chyna needs her more than our crazy scheme does.'

‘You're right,' Cass agreed. ‘I'll try and make contact.'

‘And how about Rio? Any word from her?'

‘A text saying “Success assured.” The agreement was to touch base every Wednesday. If I can't reach Beth by tomorrow, I'll go to the house and pretend I'm a relative.'

‘Good,' Lara agreed. ‘Enzio Bassalino is in New York. That's the reason I'm here.'

Cass sounded alarmed. ‘God, I hope Dukey doesn't find out. He's always muttering about there only being one way.'

‘Killing's too good for him,' Lara said, surprised at her own coldness. ‘Our way is best.'

She hung up, walked into the bathroom, brushed her luxuriant mane of hair, and touched up her makeup.

She looked tired, and she was worried about Beth. Her younger sister was such an innocent, so unworldly. Beth had been stuck away in a commune all her life, and now she was stuck in a house with a dangerous hood. Cass had to get her out, there was no question about it.

Next Lara thought about Nick. She was supposed to hate him, but it wasn't that easy. The funny thing was that instead of hating him she found she liked him—a pure, natural like that had nothing to do with money or position or title. God! It would certainly make everything a lot easier if she didn't. Still, she had a job to do. And with Beth out of the picture it was more important than ever.

* * *

Frank arrived at the hotel with Golli and Segal. They accompanied him everywhere; they were his protection, his insurance. The way things were going in New York, there was big trouble everywhere. Only the previous week one of his chief ‘executives' had been gunned down in the middle of Manhattan. He was taking no chances. Golli and Segal were worth the exorbitant money he paid them each week.

* * *

Enzio had used the hotel many times before, and his security arrangements were as usual. The entire third floor was inaccessible except to members of his immediate entourage. Even Frank had to use the complicated passwords, although all the men Enzio traveled with had known Frank since he was a baby.

Enzio did not believe in new faces. He kept a permanent army of twenty-five men who had been with him many years and were always on call. Frank had argued with him many times over this. ‘They're old guys, what can they do for you if there's trouble? They can barely carry a gun anymore, let alone use it.'

Enzio laughed in his face. ‘These “old guys,” as you call them, are tougher and smarter than any of the punks you have around. I
know
I can't be got to—do you have the same security?'

Frank felt safe enough with Golli and Segal. They were young and fast—he'd seen them in action.

Father and son greeted each other warmly, kissing and hugging in the Italian way.

Enzio patted Frank on the shoulders, standing back to survey him. ‘So, you look okay,' he announced. ‘How's the little girl? She about ready to pop again?' He was very fond of his daughter-in-law.

Frank nodded. ‘Anna Maria's fine. She's looking forward to seeing you.' But his thoughts were not of his wife. His thoughts were of Beth.

‘An' the bambinos? They excited to see their old grandpop?'

‘Yeah, Pa. Dinner tonight, Anna Maria's making your favorite—spaghetti, meatballs, the works.'

‘That's good.' Enzio paused, his face becoming serious. ‘I'm most troubled by the reports I've been hearing.'

Frank turned, staring out of the window. ‘Everything's under control,' he said, his voice uptight.

‘I wonder if Tomassio Vitorelli would agree with you,' Enzio replied mildly, adding more harshly, ‘We're not gonna fuck around on this, Frank. I'm not here to get my rocks off.' He frowned. ‘No use talkin' now. We'll discuss it tonight after dinner, when Nick is here.'

‘Sure.' Frank managed a smile. ‘Sure, Poppa, everything's gonna be okay.'

Dukey K. Williams was pleased. The hit on the Magic Lantern restaurant was a success. It had disposed of Tomassio Vitorelli, a big man in the Bassalino organization. And the bombing had put the fear of God into other restaurants and clubs that didn't want the same treatment. Let the Bassalinos start to sweat. It was a good beginning.

* * *

Leroy Jesus Bauls was also pleased. The hit had been his idea.

Dukey K. Williams had come to him.

Dukey K. Williams was prepared to let him do it his way.

Dukey K. Williams was going to lay a lot of bucks on Leroy. Mucho, mucho big bucks.

Yeah, things were sweet for a guy who had started out with everything against him.

Leroy's Swedish mother was a hooker, and his black father a pimp. As soon as he was able he'd left home. His parents were dead as far as he was concerned, and it wouldn't bother him one bit if they actually were.

Good-looking at an early age, he never had any trouble finding a bed to sleep in. If he'd wanted to, he could have followed his father's profession; there were plenty of offers. But Leroy had no desire to be beholden to any woman.

Instead he joined a street gang and cruised with them for a while. It was small stuff, rolling drunks and old ladies, knocking off neighborhood stores. By the time the profits were split up they were practically nonexistent. Leroy knew he had to move on to better things.

He decided that narcotics was the business for him. Once or twice he'd smoked pot, tried acid twice. Neither did anything for him. That was good. The thing to be when dealing with drugs was cool, and definitely a nonparticipant.

He'd seen what drugs did to people, the way dope affected their looks, and he wanted none of that. But pushing was another bag of shit; pushing could lead to a lot of money.

Leroy was young, good-looking, and a convincing talker. He picked out the area he wanted to operate and, with a small stake from a friend, went into business.

Soon he found he was stepping on toes. The space he'd picked was already fully covered. They warned him off. They thought he was some punk kid, easy to handle. He bought a gun with his first week's profits and waited.

There were three sets of toes he was stepping on. Within a month all three of them were dead, shot. Leroy wrapped his gun in plastic, weighted it with rocks, and safely laid it to rest at the bottom of the river.

With his fifth week's profits he bought himself another one. He was sixteen years old.

For a year he concentrated solely on dealing, working on his own with good sources of supply. He stashed his money away and kept his gun handy. Nobody bothered him. His reputation preceded him. He kept to his own area and didn't get in anyone's way.

He lived alone in a rooming house. Never went out except on business and rarely spent any money. By the end of a year he'd saved a substantial amount. Enough to buy a car and a whole new wardrobe of clothes, and to rent a decent apartment.

His first purchase was a black Mercedes. Next he had several black suits custom-made for him. And then he furnished his apartment with a lot of expensive black leather couches and chairs.

He looked older than seventeen.

Leroy found that to maintain his new life-style he needed even more money. So he employed two friends of his to work his space and moved on to new territory.

Within days he received word that Bosco Sam's toes were too many to step on and Leroy knew it, so he paid him a visit.

They came to an arrangement. Leroy was to keep to the area he already had, and instead of moving in on Bosco Sam's action, Bosco Sam would throw a couple of things his way that would bring him a lot more money than hustling drugs.

Leroy liked the idea. More bucks for less work, and he still kept a couple of guys working for him.

In the first year Bosco Sam gave him three contracts to take care of. Three hits. Leroy executed them all without a hitch.

Leroy was moving up. He was getting himself a reputation, and it was doing him nothing but good.

Now, four years later, Leroy Jesus Bauls was top man in his profession. He had long ago moved out of the drug scene.

He had used his spare time to study explosives, electronics, computer bombs. There was nothing he didn't know how to do, from blowing up a plane to planting a bomb in a bank that he could detonate three weeks later.

Leroy Jesus Bauls was a free-lance hit man. The best.

He had a reputation for taking risks, and every risk he had ever taken had paid off. Leroy was riding high.

Now he waited. Dukey K. Williams would let him know when to move again, and when he did, Leroy would be ready.

Angelo's apartment in Mayfair was small. A living room, kitchen, and bathroom. He'd splashed out on the bedroom. The walls were draped with leopard and tiger skins, the floor was carpeted in three-inch-thick fur, the ceiling was a kaleidoscope of different-colored mirrors. Naturally, the bed dominated. It did everything electrically, from turning around in a slow circle to producing television, stereo, or coffee at the touch of a button.

Angelo was proud of his domain. ‘Hot, huh?' he boasted to Rio.

She dismissed her surroundings with a glance. ‘Get yourself a water bed, baby' was her only comment.

They were both stoned. After Rio's initial introductory remark to Angelo he'd lost no time in getting rid of his blond companion and joining up with Rio's group. She was immediately cool, palming him off on Peaches while making rude comments about cocky Italian studs.

As usual, Rio was the center of attention, outrageous in whore's shoes with five-inch heels that raised her six-foot height to ridiculous proportions. She towered over everybody, her sinewy body undulating on the packed dance floor in a revealing dress tied and swathed around her body. Silver bangles jangled halfway up both her arms, and fertility symbols jostled and moved around her neck. Her makeup was extreme, while her long black Indian hair was coiled up and hidden under a purple Afro wig.

She danced with everyone, generating sexuality and excitement at high-level voltage.

Angelo was content to hang around and watch. He had no doubts that later she'd go home with him.

He sat back and enjoyed the show, remembering a few years earlier. New York. At the time he'd been working for his brother Frank, and one day he'd been sent over to Billy Express's house to deliver a package. ‘Personally,' Frank had said. ‘Make sure you give it to him
personally.
'

Billy Express was not home, and Angelo had been told to wait. He hadn't enjoyed being treated like a messenger boy. It pissed him off. But then he heard the noises, unmistakable noises, and he went to investigate, soft-footed in the white sneakers he always chose to wear.

The noises came from the room next to the study where he'd been told to wait. Opening the door a crack, he peered in.

Rio Java and a Chinese man were performing on the floor. She was naked, spread-eagled, and above her the Chinese posed very still while she groaned loudly. Occasionally the Chinese man moved, grinding himself deeply into her, withdrawing, and then remaining motionless until the next short stab. It was driving Rio mad, until suddenly she'd clutched at him, locking her extra-long legs around his neck and screaming with complete abandon.

Angelo had closed the door quickly, feeling more than horny. As soon as he'd delivered the package to Billy Express he'd hurried over to Carita's house and dropped another load.

‘You bin here four times this week,' Carita had complained. ‘I told Frank you could have two freebies a week. Whaddya think I am, for chrissake? I'm running a business, not a friggin' charity!'