* * *
Lara stared out of the window as the limousine headed toward the city. Margaret was dead, and she intended to find out why.
Somebody was going to pay for her sister’s death. She would make sure of that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beth Lawrence Brown came to New York by train. It was the first time she had been there. In fact, it was the first time she had been anywhere outside of the commune that had been her home since she was fifteen. Now twenty, she was clear-skinned and fair-haired, with hair that hung straight and thick, reaching below her waist. She was a very pretty girl. Her face had a childlike innocence, with large blue eyes and a wide, soft mouth.
Beth wore her usual outfit, a long dress of Indian fabric, patched in places, thonged sandals on bare feet, and many necklaces of thin leather with hand-painted beads and signs hanging from them. Close to her neck, almost a choker, was a thin gold chain with a gold cross. On the cross were engraved the words LOVE—PEACE—MARGARET.
The two sisters had been very close—not in terms of distance, but in the same way that Lara and Margaret were close. There was a true feeling of unity.
Beth carried with her a large, pouchy suede purse. In it were her things—a hairbrush, a pair of jeans, a flimsy blouse, and many books. She didn’t believe in possessions, only books—her passion was reading.
‘Wanna buy me a drink, cutie?’ A drunk sidled up to her. I’ll give ya a lil’ action in exchange.’
She ignored him, her expression pensive and thoughtful. Margaret would have told him to fuck off. Lara would have said what a dreadful little man he was. How different her two sisters were.
Cass had promised there would be someone to meet her. She was supposed to wait at the information booth, but the train was early, and she didn’t want to hang around, so she decided to walk to Cass’s apartment.
She couldn’t believe what had happened. It was inconceivable that Margaret was dead. She was such a good person, clever and bright and caring. So she was tough—everyone knew that—but how else could she have survived?
She hasn’t survived, Beth thought sadly. My sister is dead.
Beth had last seen her six months previously. Margaret had arrived to stay for a weekend. Everyone at the commune liked her; in fact, they welcomed her visits. She brought all the new books, record albums, and toys for the children—clever toys, not commercial junk. There were ten children living on the farm, and the responsibility of raising them was shared among the five women and eight men who also lived there. One of the children was Beth’s, a little girl of four. Max was her father.
Margaret had greeted her niece, Chyna, with special hugs and kisses. ‘She’s going to grow up to be president one day,’ she joked. ‘She’s so smart, I love it!’
Beth smiled serenely. ‘With you to guide her, I’m sure anything is possible.’
‘Bet on it, kid, When she’s ten she’s coming to live with me in New York. We’ll take it from there.’
Margaret shared in the work over the long weekend. She didn’t mind what she did—washing floors, helping with the cooking, gardening. She said it helped her relax. She also found time to sit and talk to Beth, listen to her problems, and give advice.
They had a party the night before she left. Great sounds and great hash Max had brought in from California. Margaret had gone off with Clasher because he was short and ugly and the least likely to be her choice. Sex was a very free thing at the commune. There were no hang-ups or jealousies. None of the pressures of life in the real world.
When Margaret left the next morning she had given Beth the gold chain, kissed her, and whispered softly, ‘You’re really lucky. You’re doing what you want to do, and you’re happy. You can’t ask for anything more, kid.’
And Beth had smiled, a wide, childish smile, and made Margaret promise to come back soon.
‘After the summer,’ Margaret had said. ‘Maybe for Christmas.’
Now the summer was almost ending, and Beth was in New York. She didn’t know for how long, she only knew it was where she had to be.
* * *
Enzio took the call in his study. He smiled and nodded. Of course, things were back to normal. He had been right. His decision was the only way. Semiretired he might be, but for any major problem that had to be taken care of, he was the one they all turned to.
Frank, his oldest son, had suggested other ways of dealing with the trouble. What did Frank know? Thirty-six years old, a good businessman, but when it came to decisions his ideas were all soft. What good were threats if you didn’t plan to carry them out?
Definite action like the old days was the only way.
Margaret Lawrence Brown had been dead two weeks, and the trouble had stopped. With no one to guide them, no leader to turn to, the hookers were quiet. It was almost as if the killing of Margaret had killed their fighting spirit. Fuck ’em. Goddamn whores.
Slowly, girls who had disappeared, taken other jobs, came drifting back. They seemed oblivious to the beatings and humiliations they faced. They seemed once more defeated.
Enzio was in a buoyant mood. He called up a furrier friend and ordered a full-length chinchilla coat for Mary Ann. It arrived within hours, and they celebrated on it. Mary Ann was not quite sure what they were celebrating, but she was a willing partner in anything Enzio wished to do.
‘You are my great big Italian lover,’ she purred, knowing that he loved praise. ‘My big, big man.’
‘And you are one hot, juicy little broad,’ he replied laughingly. ‘My favorite tasty slice of lasagna!’
He liked to look at her, the curvy body, big breasts, silky skin, and pouty mouth. It would be quite a while before he grew tired of this one.
Oh, yeah, Enzio Bassalino knew a good piece of ass when it came his way.
CHAPTER SIX
Lola was not the girl’s real name. She was thin and scruffy, with city-smoke eyes, and clothes that announced her as the hooker she was. She bit her nails all the time, hungry, addictive little nibbles. Her arms told the story of a heavy drug habit. She was nineteen years old.
Lola had been beaten up. Not badly, a few bruises around her body, cigarette burns on her legs and arms. Just enough to make her aware there was more to come.
She knew all about it. She had known about it before it happened. Lola lived with Charlie Mailer, and Charlie was one of Tony’s boys. Charlie had pulled the hit on Margaret Lawrence Brown.
Lola scurried down the street. It was the first time she’d been out since it happened, the first time she’d dared.
She wore a short skirt, summer lace-up boots, and a tight sweater. Her hair was untidily long, and her eyes were decorated with spiky eyelashes.
Charlie had kicked her out of bed—‘Get out and earn something, then maybe we’ll catch a movie. An’ listen, bitch—don’t you come back with less than a coupla hundred, or I’ll fuckin’ burn your dumb ass.’
She’d been huddled in bed for two weeks, and Charlie hadn’t minded. Flushed with his own success, he was out celebrating. Tony was pleased with him. Tony wanted him around. And Tony was one of the big guys.
Lola knew Charlie was ready to dump her. He was moving up, and he didn’t want her hanging on.
She didn’t care. She knew what she had to do.
A man stopped her, pulling her roughly by the arm. She jerked herself free. ‘Not tonight,’ she muttered feverishly. ‘This girl ain’t workin’ tonight.’
She hurried on, occasionally glancing behind her, making sure she wasn’t followed.
There was a torn piece of newspaper clutched in her hand, with an address circled in red. Stopping for a moment, she peered at it.
‘Where ya goin’, girlie?’ A passing drunk rolled toward her.
‘Piss off,’ she snapped sharply, hurrying on her way.
When at last she found the circled address she hesitated before going inside. For a while she hovered on the sidewalk, gazing up at the apartment building, thinking about Susie, her little sister.
And then suddenly she spat angrily on the pavement and without further ado marched right in.
‘I’m here to see… uh… Cass Long,’ she told the doorman.
He looked her over, pursed his lips, and indicated the reception desk.
Behind the desk sat a grizzled old man with a sour expression.
‘Cass Long,’ she said.
‘She expectin’ ya?’
Lola shook her head. ‘No. You’d better tell her it’s urgent.’
Leaning forward, his watery eyes stayed fixed on her legs while he buzzed Cass’s apartment.
Cass told him to send the girl right up. So many women had been to see her since Margaret’s death, she was used to it. She gave them coffee and a picture of Margaret inscribed ‘Peace—Love.’ In a way it was a solace to know how deeply so many people had cared. She liked to talk to them.
Putting down the house phone, she said, ‘There’s another one on the way up. Will you let her in?’
Beth nodded. She’d been there a few days, and Cass didn’t know how she could have managed without her. Margaret’s baby sister had turned out to be strong and loving—a great comfort.
Beth opened the door for Lola and led her into the kitchen to offer refreshments. She knew by the girl’s eyes she was a junkie. Life on the commune had not sheltered her from the harder facts of life.
‘I don’t want anything,’ Lola said restlessly. ‘Are you Cass?’
‘No,’ Beth replied quietly.
‘Well, like I gotta see Cass. Get her.’
Cass came in then. She looked tired. There were deep purple shadows under her eyes; she was having trouble sleeping.
‘I got somethin’ t’tell you,’ Lola said hastily. ‘I don’t want no reward, pity, nothin’ like that. You can sure see what I am, it’s no big secret.’ She paused to nibble on a hangnail, realized what she was doing, and stopped. ‘Margaret Lawrence Brown gave people hope. She wouldn’t have gotten me together—I’m nothin’ but a loser. Only I had a sister—just a baby. Aw, shit—I can’t even tell you what they did to her.’ She paused again, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Anyway—about Margaret. One of Tony’s boys made the hit. It don’t matter who—he was working on orders. Tony was working on orders, too. The big guy who ordered it done was Enzio Bassalino—he arranged it—the hit was all his.’
‘Who’s Enzio Bassalino?’ Beth asked.
‘This big guy prick. He lives in some fancy mansion in Miami. They say he’s retired, but believe me—he controls it all. The words to waste her came outta his mouth—not out of no gun.’
Cass didn’t say anything. Intuition told her the girl was speaking the truth.
‘Now I told you, I gotta get outta here.’ Lola stood up and scurried toward the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ Cass said quickly. ‘If what you’re saying is true, let’s get the police in on it.’
Lola laughed harshly. ‘Cops. Are you shittin’ me? Half of them are in Bassalino’s pocket. Everyone’s on the take. If you want him, you’re gonna hafta get him yourself.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Beth said.
‘Yeah, well, think about it. You can do it. You’re both clever. You got connections.’ Lola shivered; she had more to do. ‘I’m gonna take care of the guy who made the hit. Yeah, I’m really gonna look after that motherfucker. He’s called Charlie Mailer. Remember his name an’ watch the papers, you’ll be readin’ about him.’ She stopped by the door, a forlorn figure. ‘Just don’t forget who the real murderer is. Enzio Bassalino. I admired Margaret Lawrence Brown, an’ I wanna be sure you’re gonna get that Bassalino bastard.’
‘Can’t you wait?’ Cass pleaded. She wanted to call Dukey or Rio, someone who would understand this whole thing better than she and Beth did.
Lola shook her head. ‘I gotta split. I’ve told you enough.’
Outside it was dark, and Lola headed for Times Square. She didn’t have to pull a trick or make a score, but somehow it seemed right that she did.
Stationing herself in the foyer of a movie house, she approached the first man going in on his own.
He was middle-aged, with a throaty cough. They bargained and then walked briskly to his nearby hotel. He insisted on entering first, alone, and she followed a few minutes later.
His room was small and poky, the bed unmade. Lola began to undress, and the man told her to keep her boots on. He took nothing off merely unzipped his trousers and shook himself free.
They started to have sex. Lola stared unseeingly at the ceiling. She was calm and detached; she knew exactly what she was going to do.
He finished quickly, and Lola took her money and left. She walked slowly home.
Charlie was asleep. She went into the kitchen, stared into the fridge, took out a can of Coke, opened it, and drank straight from the can. The cold bubbles hurt her throat. Then she reached on top of the fridge, groping toward the back where she knew Charlie kept his revolver. Reaching the gun, she checked it carefully. It was loaded.
Lola fitted on the silencer. Living with Charlie had taught her a lot about guns.
Walking to the door of the bedroom, she called out his name.
Charlie awoke slowly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Lola pointing a gun at him. ‘What the fuck—’ he began, leaping from the bed.
She shot him in the leg. The bullet made a satisfying soft thud.
His face was a mask of seething fury mixed with surprise. ‘You dumb cunt!’ he yelled.
She shot him between the legs, aiming at his crotch.
He screamed out in agonizing pain.
She didn’t hesitate. She shot him in the chest, and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud and was finally silent.
Putting the gun down beside him, she walked out of the apartment, took the elevator to the forty-seventh floor, and let herself out of the fire exit door to the roof.
Determinedly she walked to the edge and without stopping hurled herself over.
Lola was impaled on some spiked railings and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The revenge was Rio’s idea. They couldn’t kill, they weren’t murderers, and anyway the man who had pulled the trigger—Charlie Mailer—had been dispatched by Lola with a bullet through the balls. As she’d promised, they read about it in the newspapers, and about her own sad suicide.
Rio hired a detective to get them a dossier on Enzio Bassalino. It turned out he was a bad boy—a Mister Big bad boy. He didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone. And yet he had three weaknesses—his three sons, Frank, Nick, and Angelo.
If one wanted to hurt Enzio Bassalino, there were three logical ways to go about it.
* * *
‘It’s settled, then?’ Rio asked. She stared around at the small gathering in Cass’s living room. “Cause I don’t want nobody backing out once we agree. You got it?’ She leveled her gaze at Lara. ‘No getting bored and hightailing off to some hot-shit jet-set paradise.’
Lara spoke vehemently, her face flushed. ‘Listen, Rio, this is no game to me. Margaret was my sister, and different though we may have been, I loved her as much as any one of you.’ Her green eyes challenged Rio. ‘I know what I have to do, and believe me, I’ll do it very well.’
‘Rio didn’t mean anything,’ Cass interjected, always one to keep the peace. ‘We’re all uptight. Who wouldn’t be after the last few weeks? Now that it’s settled and we’ve decided what we’re going to do, I think we’ll all breathe easier. I know I certainly will.’
Dukey K. Williams stood up, his powerful frame menacing the room. ‘Nobody’s goddamn listenin’ to me,’ he complained, ‘but believe me—my way is the right way.’
‘Your way!’ Rio scoffed. ‘Your way is shit. What do you think? That we can just go up to the dude and say Oh, good morning Mister Big Boss Man Bassalino, I understand it was you who gave the order to shoot Margaret. Well, come over here, Mister Bad Man, for I am going to beat you to a pulp wit
h my big strong hands.’ She snorted her disgust. ‘Dukey, you’re full of it. This guy Bassalino is a big-time capo. If you got anywhere near him, you’d get your ass burned good. And even if you can get to him—what then? Kill him?
Hey, man, what’s dead? Dead is nothing. Dead is an easy scene. The way we’ve thought of is the only way to really get to the fucker—the only way.’
Dukey glared at her. ‘Rio, baby, your problem is you live your life between your legs. A little bit of screwin’ here, a little bit of ass there. So fuckin’ what? These guys have had it all before. Your pussy got a fur lining or somethin’?’
‘Fuck you, Dukey. I can make it work,’ she said confidently.
‘Yeah, you probably can. A sex freak like you. Maybe Lara, too, I’m not into her whole scene. But Beth? You’ve gotta be kidding. A baby like her will get mashed up and eaten by the dudes you’re talkin’ about.’
Beth spoke up for herself. ‘I can do it,’ she said hotly. ‘I haven’t led such a sheltered life. Besides’—she widened her soft, blue eyes—‘I want to do it. For Margaret.’
‘It’s settled,’ Rio announced. ‘Fucking settled. And we start as soon as possible.’
Dukey K. Williams left the meeting shortly after, muttering under his breath. ‘Dumb broads. What do they know? Nothin’. Like nothin’.’
He climbed into his white Rolls Royce, parked illegally outside Cass’s building, angrily shoving a tape into the tape deck. It happened to be Dukey K. Williams Sings Dukey K. Williams. The first track was ‘Soul, Grit, and Margaret.’ He had written it for her.
Jesus Christ, what a stubborn woman she’d been. One hell of a wild lady—in bed and out. If only she’d listened to him…
‘Drop it,’ he’d warned her time and time again. ‘Don’t fuck with the big boys. So you save a few hookers, it ain’t gonna help. Save a few, lose a few, it’s all shit.’
‘What’s the matter, Dukey? Don’t you think hookers deserve saving?’ Margaret had asked.
‘Hell, honey—if you do get ’em off the streets, before you can say big bucks they’ll be back out again.’
The Love Killers Page 3