Still, to kill his own flesh, to murder in cold blood…
“Why me?” he had asked Bonnatti.
“Because you have everything to gain an’ nothin’ to lose,” Enzio replied. “Besides, Gino’s suspicious. None of my boys could get close. Don’t fuck up. Do the job properly. There’ll be a car waiting for you when you leave the hotel—a ticket to Rio—and a million dollars’ cash when you arrive. Friggin’ beat that.”
“How do I know—” Dario began.
“That you can trust me?” Enzio laughed his throaty laugh. “You don’t. You’re takin’ a chance—but it’s a better chance than your sister or father will give you. You can bet on that little fact of life.”
By four o’clock in the afternoon Steven was getting jittery. He had spent the entire day tying up loose ends and waiting for the papers to be processed. He wanted to be there when they arrested Bonnatti. He wanted to see the look on his face when they put the cuffs on, read him his rights, and hauled him down to the station.
A man like Bonnatti would immediately try for bail. Steven had plans to block that little move.
He and Bobby sat around his office drinking endless cups of coffee and waiting for the call to tell them everything was ready.
“Shit, man!” exclaimed Bobby. “I figured the two years of work was tough, but I’m sweatin’ piss today just waitin’ to see that motha’s face.”
Steven nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“What d’y’say. Another cuppa java?”
He shook his head and yawned. “How long does it take to check out a license number on a car?”
“About five minutes. I got a friend in the department. What’s the number?”
Steven read out the number of Lucky’s Mercedes from the piece of paper he had scribbled it down on.
“You wanna see action, I’ll show you action,” Bobby joked, picking up the phone.
Five minutes later he had the name of the company the car was registered to. “Who you trackin’?” he asked curiously.
“Just—someone,” Steven muttered, thinking of Lucky and wanting to see her again very much indeed.
“Well someone’s car belongs to the Free Make-Up Company. I have an address if you want to track someone further.”
“Not right now.”
“Does Aileen know about someone?”
“Why don’t you just shut up, Bobby, and get us another cup of coffee.”
“Right on, boss man, right on.”
The meeting between Lucky and Gino was not going well. She was too full of anger to even consider reconciling with her father. He was mild and friendly, but the more he spoke, the nicer he was, the more it made her feel that he was talking down to her, playing her along.
“Vegas is mine,” she snapped finally. “I’m going back.”
“A little late in the day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Lucky—you seem like a smart girl. You gave Vegas to Bonnatti—handed it to him. You think he’ll just step down with a smile?”
“I know how to handle him.”
He laughed aloud. “I came back not a moment too soon. Don’t you realize that Bonnatti is no longer our friend?”
Two red spots burned brightly on her cheeks. Even Gino knew….
Before she could say anything, there was a knock on the door. Lucky opened it up.
Dario stood in the doorway, slim and blond and innocent-looking. “Hi, everyone,” he said. “Good to see you.”
At two o’clock in the afternoon Carrie rented a car from Hertz. At three o’clock in the afternoon she was parked near the gates to Enzio Bonnatti’s mansion.
She sat in the car, her purse beside her, the gun in her purse. She was waiting. She didn’t know what for. She only knew that if she waited long enough she would summon the courage to do something about the monster who lived only yards from where she was sitting.
Warris Charters checked into the Plaza Hotel. Why not? Enzio Bonnatti was paying.
He had a sauna, a massage, a manicure. On two occasions he phoned the Bonnatti mansion, but both times Enzio was unavailable. At three fifteen he phoned again and Enzio spoke to him.
“I have some film I’d like you to see,” Warris said, relieved that Enzio had finally taken his call. In the movie business you could never be sure of anything.
“Good,” said Enzio. “I wanna see it. An’ I got an idea for a new ending that’ll kill you.”
“Shall I come out now?”
“You got a car?”
“No. I was going to rent one.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll send one of the boys for you. Russo—he’ll pick you up around six. Be ready.”
Warris hung up with a smile on his face.
Lucky wasn’t pleased when Dario showed up. Who’d invited him? This was supposed to be a business meeting, and it was turning into a family reunion. Shit! She had things to do. She didn’t need this.
Dario and she were no longer on speaking terms. Since the porno movie—and the subsequent embarrassment—their relationship was null and void.
The atmosphere in Gino’s suite was strained, to say the least. Dario tried to play it nice and easy, but the pressure of the small gun in the ill-fitting holster under his arm was bothering him more than a little. Perspiration beaded his top lip.
“Take off your jacket,” Gino urged. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“In a minute,” replied Dario. In a minute I’m going to blow your brains out. Who first? If I hit bitch sister first, what will Gino do? And vice versa?
Sweet Jesus! Bonnatti had just shoved a gun at him and said “Do it.” But how? Who first, for crissake? Who first?
“I have to be going,” Lucky said abruptly.
Hit her first. She was the one who had given him the most trouble.
Automatically his hand reached for the gun. Rio. A million dollars. Freedom.
“Gino”—Costa came walking in from the bedroom—“would you like me to order something from room service?”
Goddammit! Costa! He wouldn’t be able to take the three of them out. Goddammit! Why hadn’t Bonnatti told him what to do about Costa?
It was all getting too confusing. He would do it—sure, he would do it—but another time. Tomorrow. The day after. Bonnatti would understand. He would have to understand. Rio could wait a day or two. The million dollars would still be there. His hand slid away from the gun. Gino was staring at him strangely—like he knew.
He rushed toward the door. “I gotta go, something I forgot to do,” he mumbled.
They were staring at him now, all three of them. His hand, slippery with sweat, slid on the doorknob.
“Hey,” Gino began, “what’s the matter with you? I want to talk to you. I want—”
He got a grip on the knob and ran from the room. He could hear Gino yelling after him, but he didn’t look back. He raced to the emergency stairs, just as Bonnatti had said he should. He stumbled down them two at a time, his breath labored, the goddamn leather holster digging uncomfortably into his armpit.
What was he running for? He hadn’t done anything.
Gradually he slowed down. By the time he reached the first floor he was breathing normally.
He walked from the hotel calmly and looked around. Across the street he saw Russo and nodded to let him know everything was all right.
Russo caught the signal and imperceptibly returned it.
Then something happened that Dario didn’t understand. He was standing in front of the hotel in broad daylight waiting for Russo to cross the street and walk him to the car, wherever it was, when suddenly somebody pounded him on the back. Jesus! Hard like a boneshaker.
He turned to see who it was, opened his mouth to speak, and blood came bubbling out.
Surprise crossed his face. He began to fall. People were screaming. I’m dying, he thought. I’ve been shot. By the time he hit the sidewalk he was dead.
Steven bent laborously over his desk, intently going over
statements, records, papers he had checked a hundred times before. Anything to pass the time.
Bobby slid into the office. “Hey, man, what are you on to?”
Steven looked up. “Just going over things.”
“No, I mean, what are you on to with the car, the Mercedes? I found out who it belongs to.”
“Who?”
“Does the name Lucky Santangelo ring any bells?”
“Lucky… Santangelo,” Steven said slowly.
“Daughter of the Gino Santangelo who just got back into town yesterday. Friend and associate of Bonnatti—although we couldn’t fix anything on him, he’s not into the drug scene or vice racket. Very connected, though.” Bobby perched excitedly on the side of Steven’s desk. “Come on—share it.”
For a moment there was silence. “Are you sure?” he asked at last.
“When Bobby De Walt has information he’s sure man.”
He thought about Lucky and frowned. Why hadn’t she told him? Why should she have told him? He hadn’t offered any information about himself, had he?
But of course she must have known who he was. Must have arranged the whole thing to see what she could find out.
Arranged a city power cut? His imagination was going berserk. It was just a coincidence.
“Foxy-lookin’ chick,” Bobby remarked. “Got her picture on file. Bonnatti’s her godfather. She was involved in openin’ up the Magiriano in Vegas. Come on, Steven—what you know, man?”
He gestured vaguely. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? So why you trackin’ her car?”
“Christ! If I find out she’s Bonnatti’s partner I’ll let you know,” he said sharply. He was inexplicably upset. How could he possibly get involved with Gino Santangelo’s daughter?
The office buzzer sounded. “Yes?” he snapped.
“Your mother is here to see you, Mr. Berkely. And the message just came through that the papers you were waiting for are all ready and waiting.”
“Thanks, Sheila. What’s my mother doing here?”
“I don’t know. Shall I send her in?”
“Yeah, I guess you’d better.” He jumped up from behind the desk and made a thumbs-up sign at Bobby. “We’re in business—let’s get it on.”
Bobby gave a whoop of delight.
Carrie entered the room and Steven grabbed her in a wild bear hug. “Ma, I sure appreciate you taking the time at last to check out where I work—but I got an emergency. Why don’t you drop by tomorrow. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Steven,” she said in a strangled voice, “I have to talk to you.”
“Not now, beautiful. I’m sorry but I am just about to get the best charge of the year. A strong shot of P.S.”
“Personal satisfaction, Mrs. B.,” laughed Bobby.
“It’s important,” Carrie said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t very important.”
“So I’ll drop by and see you later.” He reached for his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.
Bobby edged close to him. “Your old lady don’t look so good,” he whispered.
Steven took a look at Carrie. She wasn’t her usual groomed self. “Later,” he said, kissing her lightly. “I promise. Now why don’t you go on home and get some rest. You’re not looking like your usual self. You got a car?”
Wanly she nodded. “Give me the key to your apartment. I’ll wait there,” she murmured, trying to control the insane trembling that was taking over her body.
“Oh! I got it,” he said, “you had a fight with Elliott.”
She did not reply. She did not trust herself to speak.
He fished in his pocket and produced a key. “I’ll be at least a couple of hours, make yourself at home,” he said, handing it to her. “C’mon, Bobby—let’s go to it.”
She watched her son leave and wondered for the hundredth time if she had made the right decision. Sitting in the car outside Enzio Bonnatti’s house had given her a lot of time to do a lot of thinking. What was her plan? March right up to the front door, ask to see Bonnatti, and shoot him dead? That was the way it would happen in a movie—but life was a little different from the movies.
There were a lot of “could she’s.”
Could she get a face-to-face confrontation with Enzio? Could she use the gun? Could she actually shoot another human being down in cold blood? Could she escape to her car and get away unseen?
Gradually, as she sat in the hot rented car with the air conditioning shut off and the sweat soaking her body, she realized how impossible her whole scheme was. And as she realized that, so she thought of other alternatives.
There was only one.
Tell Steven the truth. Tell him everything.
Once she made that decision she felt alive, rejuvenated. She started up the car and headed for the city without a backward glance.
Steven had a right to know. And whatever happened she would tell him.
“What the fuck is the matter with that kid?” Gino stormed. “You know what? He actually looked like he was reaching for a piece. Did you get that action, Costa?”
“No, I didn’t see that.”
“I did,” said Lucky. “I wouldn’t put anything past Dario.”
“I don’t understand what’s goin’ on,” Gino said excitedly. “My own kid carryin’ a piece in here. Get him back, Costa. I think it’s about time I straightened the little pansy out.”
“Oh,” said Lucky, “I think you’ve left it a bit late to straighten him out. If you had paid more attention to him when he was a teenager—”
Gino whirled on her. “And who do you think you’re talkin’ to?”
She flushed, but she didn’t back down. “You. I’m talking to you. When Dario and I were little we had no family life. Shut up in that Bel Air mausoleum like a couple of lepers. We weren’t allowed friends. We couldn’t go to the movies like other kids. If we went shopping one of your heavies had to go with us. No wonder Dario is screwed up today.”
He glared at her. “Terrible life you had. A beautiful home. The best that money could buy.”
She raised her voice excitedly. “Money. Who cares about money? I wanted you when I was growing up. I wanted you to care—to be with me. I wanted you to be a proper father.”
Her words cut into him like a knife. “I always did the best for both of you,” he growled, “the best I knew how—”
“Well, it wasn’t enough,” she said triumphantly.
Police sirens wailed in the street outside. Costa went to the window and tried to see what was going on.
“Get the fuck out of here and bring Dario back,” Gino screamed at him. Costa left hurriedly.
Lucky sighed. “I’m going,” she said. “You and I—we just can’t communicate. We never could.”
“You talk about me bein’ a proper father,” he steamed. “How about you bein’ a proper daughter? Runnin’ away from school. Screwin’ anything in pants. Goin’ from—”
“I didn’t,” she interrupted—incensed with fury. “And even if I did, so what?”
“So what? she says. So what?” He shook his head sadly. “You’re right, Lucky. You an’ I—we just aren’t on the same wavelength. Why don’t you go. Seven years an’ not even a lousy postcard. That’s a daughter?”
“You didn’t write me,” she accused fiercely.
He felt very very tired. Someone was pounding on the door. “Who is it?” he barked.
“It’s Costa. Let me in—quickly.”
Lucky picked up her purse. For some stupid unknown reason she wanted to cry.
Gino opened up the door and Costa burst in, white and trembling. “Dario’s been shot,” he gasped, “outside the hotel. He’s dead.”
“Holy Christ!” Gino cried out. “Holy mother of Christ!”
Lucky stood transfixed.
Suddenly Gino clutched at his chest and staggered toward the couch. A low moan escaped his lips.
“What is it?” Lucky asked urgently. “What is it?”
He moaned again, his face gray. All at once he looked every one of his seventy-one years.
“I… think… it’s… my… heart…” he mumbled. “You’d… better…get…me…a… doctor… fast….”
Friday, July 15, 1977
New York,
Evening
Enzio flicked the remote control on the bedroom television, changing channels fast and furiously, pausing at each news report.
“Honey,” complained the sugary blonde, bouncing up and down on his king-size bed clad only in peach-colored silk french knickers, “I want to watch The Dating Game.”
“Will you get dressed, for crissake,” he growled. “I seen enough of your tits to last me a month.”
She pouted. “Thought you liked baby’s titties.”
“Get dressed, you dumbo broad. I got this guy comin’ specially to see you all the way from Hollywood. Now go get dressed an’ shut up.”
She crawled off the bed, still pouting, admired herself in the mirrored wall, and flounced into the bathroom.
Enzio scowled and switched channels again. Goddamn cooze—only good for one thing. But he liked to have a piece that knocked ’em dead when he walked into a restaurant, and this was the best one yet. Imogene. Eighteen. A former Playpussy of the Month. Forty-two-inch bazookas that beat anything he had ever handled.
The dumb broad wanted to be a movie star. So he’d make her a movie star. Big deal.
“Vic,” he bawled out loudly, “where the frig is the report on Gino and Lucky? I mean, it should be on the news by now, shouldn’t it? They got the Dario shootin’ on.”
Big Victor lumbered into the room. “Beats me, boss. Maybe they ain’t got discovered yet.”
“You talk straight outa your asshole. They’re in a hotel. People don’t get shot in a hotel without someone findin’ ’em. A maid, a nosey dame in the room next door—someone.”
“Beats me, boss.”
“Is that all y’can say for shit’s sake? You sure the job was done?”
“Oh, yes, boss, I’m sure. Russo got the signal from Dario himself, just like was arranged.”
“Where is Russo?”
“He’ll be here any time now. He’s bringin’ out that movie producer. Pickin’ him up at the Plaza like you said.”
Chances Page 70