The Love Killers (2 page)

‘Where's Dukey?' she asked, groping for a cigarette in her oversized purse.

‘He's on his way,' Cass replied. ‘And I reached Lara. She's flying in.'

They watched silently as more doctors appeared and hurried into the emergency room.

‘Can I at least see her?' Cass pleaded, catching one doctor as he emerged.

‘Are you a relative?' he asked sympathetically, noting her blood-soaked dress. She had cradled Margaret's head on her lap until the ambulance arrived and then traveled to the hospital with her.

‘Yes,' Cass lied.

The doctor drew her aside. ‘It's not a pretty sight,' he warned.

She bit her lip. ‘I know,' she whispered. ‘I brought her in.'

The doctor felt sorry for her. ‘Well, I suppose if you're a relative,' he said. ‘It's against regulations, but—all right, come with me.'

Rio nodded at Cass to go ahead, and she followed the doctor into the emergency room.

A team of professionals were doing everything they could. Two catheters were allowing the first pint of blood to be transfused. A tube was at Margaret's nose. A doctor worked at massaging her heart.

Cass felt sick. ‘There's not much hope, is there?' she asked, choking back tears.

Grimly the doctor shook his head and led her quietly out.

Rio looked at her. They didn't need words, they both knew.

‘Who did it?' Cass demanded, rubbing her eyes. She had been asking the same question ever since the fateful moment in the park when Margaret fell. Margaret had so many enemies; a lot of people hated her because of the causes she fought for.
And
because she led her life exactly as she pleased, and didn't give a damn about criticism or gossip. The man she was currently living with was Dukey K. Williams, a black soul singer with a dubious past. Cass didn't like him. She felt he was using Margaret to get publicity for his sagging career.

Rio dragged deeply on her cigarette. ‘Listen—it's no secret Margaret made enemies. It comes with the territory. She knew it.'

‘I kept on warning her,' Cass replied mournfully. ‘She never listened. Margaret never thought anything through, she just went for it.'

‘Ah, yes,' Rio replied. ‘But that's what makes her so special, isn't it?'

‘I guess,' Cass said, thinking about all the hate mail Margaret received. ‘Nigger Lover,' ‘Commie Bitch,' and the like. There were also threats to kill her. ‘Lawrence Brown. I saw you on “The Tonight Show.” I hate you. I hope you drop dead. I might kill you myself.'

These letters were almost a daily occurrence, so mundane as to be casually deposited in the lunatic file and forgotten.

The ones that always worried Cass were the telephone threats. Muffled voices warning Margaret to leave certain causes alone. Recently it had been the matter of the prostitutes. So many had been following Margaret, that suddenly the pimps, the madams, and the hoods that controlled it all were getting worried. A dearth of prostitutes—it was becoming an impossible situation, and each time Margaret held one of her open-air rallies, hundreds more vanished overnight, spurred on by the fact that F.W.N. offered them more than words; it offered them a chance of starting afresh. The organization arranged jobs, living accommodations, even money if the need was urgent.

There had been many threats for Margaret to drop the ‘Great Hooker Revolution,' as
New Month
magazine called it. They had recently featured her on their cover with a six-page story inside. But Margaret had no intention of dropping anything. Margaret Lawrence Brown was fearless when it came to her causes.

* * *

Dukey K. Williams rushed to the hospital from a recording session. There was a struggle to get inside—the place was swarming with police, press, and television crews.

Dukey, accompanied by his manager and P. R. man, refused any comment as he pushed his way through the mob. At the elevator he was stopped by a security guard who refused to allow him to board.

‘Jesus Christ!' Dukey screamed his frustration. ‘Get this lowlife outta my way before I fuckin' cream him.'

The guard glared, his hand twitching nervously near his gun.

‘Calm down, Dukey.' His manager tried to defuse the situation. ‘They're only protecting Margaret. Cass must be up there.'

Cass was sent for, and the guard allowed Dukey and his entourage through.

‘Jesus Christ! How did it happen?' Dukey demanded. ‘Have they caught the son of a bitch who did it? Will she make it? What the
fuck
is goin' on?'

Sadly Cass shook her head. ‘They don't seem to know,' she replied quietly. ‘It doesn't look good.'

Rio was at the elevator to meet them. ‘Forget it,' she said in a flat, toneless voice. ‘Margaret just died.'

Enzio Bassalino was a big and powerful man with huge shoulders and a wide girth. It always amused Mary Ann August when the mood took him to cook dinner. He would clear the kitchen of all the help, tie an apron around his waist, and then go to work cooking spaghetti, his special meat sauce à la Enzio, and hearty chunks of garlic bread.

‘Honey—you look so
funny
in that apron,' Mary Ann trilled. She was allowed in the kitchen only as long as she promised not to interfere. ‘Don't you want Little Mama to help you?'

Little Mama was the nickname Enzio used for her. She was unaware of the fact it had also been the pet name of every girl before her.

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘What you can do, Little Mama, is you can bring me some more vino. Pronto!'

Mary Ann obliged and then perched on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her long legs back and forth. She was wearing an extremely tight dress cut very low in front. Enzio chose her clothes, and they were always of the same style. She was not allowed to wear pants, shirts, or anything casual. Enzio liked her to look sexy.

Mary Ann didn't mind. Life was certainly a lot better with Enzio than it had been before, and she catered to his every need. After all, Enzio Bassalino was a very important man, and she was thrilled and honored to be with him.

‘Taste this.' Proudly he offered her a spoonful of the steaming, rich meat sauce.

Dutifully she opened her mouth. ‘Ouch, Noonzi, it's hot!' She pouted. ‘You've burned your Little Mama.'

Enzio roared with laughter. He was celebrating. Tonight he would laugh at anything.

‘Sometimes you're really nasty.' Mary Ann lapsed into baby talk. ‘Why you so mean to your rickle lickle girlie?'

‘Ha!' he said with a snort. ‘You don't even know what mean is.' He dipped his finger in the bubbling sauce, licked it approvingly, and added more wine. ‘You're a cute girl,' he said condescendingly. ‘Stay that way and you'll be all right. Okay, Little Mama?'

She giggled happily. ‘Okay, Big Daddy.'

In his own peculiar way he was quite fond of Mary Ann. She was dumber than most broads and never asked any questions. She was also stacked just the way he liked, and obliging. Nothing was ever too much trouble.

Enzio hated the usual routine. They moved in, and within weeks they thought they owned you. Broads! They asked questions, got nosy, and sometimes had the nerve to plead a headache when he wanted to make love. Enzio was very proud of the fact that even now, aged sixty-nine, he could still get it up once or twice a week. Often he thought about the times when it was once, twice, or even three or four times a night. What a stud he had been! What a magnificent stallion!

Now it was up to his sons to carry on the Bassalino tradition with women. And he had three of them, three fine young men of whom he was more than proud. They were his life. Through them the name of Bassalino would remain a force to be reckoned with. And when he became old, really old, they would be there to protect him as he had protected them.

It was a good job they had not taken after their mother. Rose was crazy, as far as Enzio was concerned, locked up in her room, spying, only speaking to her sons when they visited. She had been there for seventeen years. Ah… seventeen years of trying to break his balls, trying to make him feel the guilt.

But her little game hadn't worked with him. He refused to feel guilty about anything. Let
her
be the one to suffer. It was all her fault anyway. What he did was his business, and she had no right to interfere.

In his heyday Enzio Bassalino had acquired the nickname of The Bull. This was on account of his habit of mounting every agreeable female who crossed his path. One day, while dallying with the wife of a friend of his known as Vincent the Hog, he'd received his one and only bullet wound. ‘Right up the ass,' the story went. ‘Vincent the Hog caught them at it and shot him right up the ass.'

Fortunately for Enzio that story wasn't strictly true. Vincent the Hog had shot him, all right, but the bullet had landed in a fleshy part of his posterior and not caused any real damage. All the same, Enzio was hardly pleased. After the incident Vincent the Hog had suffered a series of mishaps beginning with his house burning down and ending with his being fished out of the river on the other end of a concrete block.

Enzio did not take kindly to ridicule, and the story of his being shot had caused many an unwelcome snigger.

Shortly after that he met and married Rose Vacco Morano, the daughter of a friend. She was slim and proud-faced, with the fragile Madonna quality of a young Italian virgin. Enzio was smitten the first time he saw her and wasted no time in asking her to marry him. It didn't take him long to plan an elaborate wedding. Rose wore white lace, and Enzio a shiny black morning suit, white shoes, gloves, and a red carnation. He figured he looked pretty dapper.

On their wedding day Rose was just eighteen and Enzio thirty-three.

They became a popular couple, Rose soon shrugging off her quiet upbringing and joining in the more flamboyant life-style of her husband. She had no desire to become a housewife, stay at home, and involve herself in cooking, children, and church activities. When she dutifully gave birth to their first son, Frank, the baby was left at home with a nanny while Rose continued to spend all her time out and about with Enzio. Rose Bassalino was a woman born before her time.

Enzio didn't mind; in fact, he was delighted. His wife was turning into a beautiful, smart woman, and Enzio knew he was much envied. While other men left their wives at home and took their girlfriends to the racetracks, bars, and clubs, Enzio brought Rose. She became one of the boys, their friend and confidante, and everyone loved her.

Enzio often marveled at his luck in finding such a gem. Rose satisfied him in every way and even found time to present him with a second son, Nick, three years after the birth of Frank.

What a woman! Enzio kept no secrets from her. She knew all about his business activities, and as he grew more successful, took over more territory, knocked out more rivals, she was right there helping him. On more than one occasion she was at his side when he dealt out his particular form of justice to people who had double-crossed him. ‘My Rose has more balls than most men,' he proudly boasted. ‘She's one fine woman.'

Nobody argued.

Rose had many admirers, and Enzio knew it. It puffed him up with pride. She was
his
wife, and nothing could change that.

When Angelo, their third son, was born, Rose finally decided she should spend more time at home. Frank was twelve and Nick nine, and they needed attention. Enzio agreed. There was no point in her accompanying him on the short trips to Chicago and the Coast. Now they had a beautiful mansion on Long Island, and it was only right that Rose should spend more time with the children and enjoy it.

She persuaded him that maybe they should enlarge their circle of friends, as, after all, most of the people they saw were involved in the rackets, and Rose thought it might be a good idea to have a different group around for a change. There was an actor and his wife who owned an estate close by, and soon Rose started inviting them over. A banking family came next, and then Charles Cardwell, a cash-poor snob who lingered at the bottom of high society. Gradually Rose surrounded them with new people, until eventually all the old faces were squeezed out.

By the time Enzio decided he didn't like it, it was too late. His business trips became longer; he acquired a small apartment in New York, plus a stream of whorish girlfriends. ‘Dumbheads,' he called them. He still adored Rose, but she had changed, and he couldn't understand why.

One night he returned home hours before she expected him. He wanted to surprise her; it was the week of their twenty-first wedding anniversary, and he thought they might talk, try to work things out. He wanted to explain how he wasn't happy. Maybe make an attempt to recapture the closeness they'd once shared.

At thirty-nine Rose was still a fiercely attractive woman. Her hair was a thick swirl of bluish-black, her dark complexion unlined, and her figure the same girlish shape he had married.

She greeted him coldly. ‘I want a divorce,' she said. ‘I'm going to marry Charles Cardwell. I know about your apartment, your street whores, and I want to be free of you.'

Enzio listened in amazement. Charles Cardwell was twenty-six years old, his parents had money, but he had a long wait before he inherited a dime.

Enzio was calm. ‘Have you slept with him?' he asked. ‘Yes,' Rose replied defiantly. She never lied. The woman didn't know what fear was.

Enzio nodded thoughtfully and agreed to her requests. Satisfied, she went to bed.

For a while he sat in his favorite armchair and gazed into space. Eventually he made some phone calls, and later that night Charles Cardwell was brought to the house.

He was a pale young man, obviously shaken and frightened of his escort—four of Enzio's most trusted lieutenants. He smiled weakly at Enzio. ‘Now listen,' he began. ‘Let me explain—'

Enzio ordered his mouth taped, his arms and legs tied.