CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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!’
The memory had always remained with Angelo. And now Rio Java was in London, in his apartment, and he was just as horny as the day he’d delivered the package to Billy Express.
Rio stretched, touched a strap or two, and with a couple of deft moves her dress fell off. She wore nothing else except the hooker shoes
and the purple wig. She was very thin, almost bony, almost flat-chested, with incredible black extended nipples. In underground movie circles her nipples were famous, having been photographed by Billy Express from every angle. In fact, her nipples were almost as famous as Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s soup can.
Angelo hurriedly stripped off his clothes, eager to keep up. Then he lowered the lights to a red glow and flicked on a Usher.
Rio’s eyes swept over him, lingering on his most important asset. ‘Is that it?’ she asked with an amused laugh.
Angelo grinned unsurely, not quite certain what she meant. She couldn’t possibly mean he was underendowed. He had a good, solid hard-on. Usually he received nothing but admiring oohs and aahs, not short, derisive laughs.
‘Well now, little boy,’ she said mockingly. ‘Where would you like to begin?’
Angelo approached her, silently wishing she would take her shoes off. Without the goddamn shoes they would be more or less the same height. As it was, the shoes gave her an advantage he didn’t like. They made him feel small.
Rio moved her body in time to the music, parting her legs, swaying back and forth to the funky sounds of Usher.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘take your shoes off.’
‘Honey-pie, I looove my shoes,’ she sighed in an exaggerated Southern accent. ‘They make me feel reeal big and mean. All the better to eat up naughty little boys like Angelo Bassalino.’
He gripped her by the waist.
‘Show me your stuff, super stud,’ she drawled.
They moved together.
Rio sang along with Usher while Angelo’s grip tightened and he managed to move her over to the bed. She was still singing as he pushed her back. ‘Get it on,’ she chanted, ‘get it up—get it together—right on, baby.’
He mounted her, and before he knew what was happening she stretched her long legs straight out, trapping him inside her, and with one movement she twisted her pelvis up, and the pressure was so great, so incredibly tight, that he came at once.
She started to laugh, loud, mocking laughter. The whole thing had only taken a few seconds.
‘Hey, baby, baby,’ she crooned. ‘What are you—a rabbit?’
She dissolved with more laughter while Angelo withdrew and tried to puzzle out what had happened. All he’d done was move inside her and that was it, a viselike grip on his manhood that pumped it all out of him in one fell swoop. Jesus! What was going on here?
Rio rolled across the bed. ‘How long’s the intermission?’ she complained, throwing off her purple wig and shaking her long, shiny black hair free.
To his credit, Angelo was hard again. He prided himself on his control, knowing he could go for hours if it was required. Mind over matter, that was the secret. And his mind had probably been dwelling on the first time he’d seen her.
He moved over her breasts with his tongue.
‘Let’s fuck, baby,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m here for action. We can worry about tongue jobs later.’
She rolled on her stomach and he entered her from behind. When he was good and in she drew her legs together and raised herself a few inches. Again there was that incredible sensation, a tightness so relentless he couldn’t stop himself from coming. And it was a great come, a beautiful happening that no amount of mind over matter could stop.
‘Jesus!’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘How long is it since you’ve been laid?’
Angelo was exhausted. He lay back on the bed in a daze, closing his eyes. Five minutes of sleep and he’d feel strong again.
James Brown sang ‘It’s a Man’s Man’s World.’
Angelo slept.
Grinning to herself, Rio got up and slipped into her dress. It was a satisfying start.
Jamming on her wig, she danced around the room in her hooker shoes, humming softly to herself. Then in brown lipstick she wrote on the bathroom mirror: HONEY, YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING!!
She let herself out without disturbing him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mary Ann August was delighted Enzio had decided to bring her to New York with him. She would never admit it—well, only to herself—but she found Miami tediously boring. It wasn’t so much Miami, but the fact that she wasn’t allowed out on her own, and that the people who came to the house were all old. And then of course there was the woman peering out of the window all the time. It was very unnerving to have a pair of crazed black eyes following you everywhere.
‘Who is it?’ Mary Ann had asked in alarm when she’d first arrived.
‘Forget it,’ Enzio had warned her. ‘Just ignore it, an’ never let me catch your ass near that room. You understand me?’
Mary Ann knew enough not to question him any further, but that didn’t stop her speaking to the maid who took meals into the room twice a day.
The maid was Italian and frightened to talk, but gradually Mary Ann pieced together the story. The woman was Enzio’s wife. She was a mental case and never left her room.
Mary Ann was scared, however, as the weeks drifted into months she forgot about the crazy, ever-watchful eyes and pretended they weren’t there. It was kind, she reflected, that Enzio let the old bag stay and had not shoved her into an institution.
Mary Ann planned to do lots of things in New York. She wanted to buy new clothes, see all the Broadway shows, and eat at the best restaurants.
Enzio had other ideas. Upon their arrival he shut her in the hotel suite and told her to stay there until he said otherwise.
They had arrived in the morning; now it was seven in the evening, and Mary Ann was bored, hungry, and fed up.
She sat pouting on the bed, legs crossed, china-blue eyes glued to a game show on the television.
At first she didn’t hear the knock on the door, and she was quite startled when Alio Marcusi walked in.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her voice sulky. ‘Where’s Enzio?’
Alio smiled. He had showered and put on his new blue suit. His few remaining hairs were plastered down with a shiny pomade.
Enzio had given him the word. Mary Ann August was out. There was a position for her in Los Angeles.
Enzio always allowed Alio a turn when he was finished with a girl. It had been that way for thirty years. Sometimes they objected. Those were the ones Alio liked best. At his age it was difficult getting it up under normal circumstances.
‘He won’t be coming,’ Alio said mildly. ‘I have a message for you, my dear.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There were candles on the table at Frank Bassalino’s house. His children, washed, scrubbed and clad in their best clothes, sat straight-backed at the table. Frank had given up his place at the head to his father and settled himself on Enzio’s right. Anna Maria nervously faced her husband.
Nick was there, laughing and joking with the two younger children. He’d wanted to spend the evening with Lara, but Enzio had insisted he attend the dinner, and his father was not a man you argued with.
He’d arranged to meet Lara later. She hadn’t minded, merely smiled and said, ‘I understand, Nick. Family is family.’
April would have ranted and raved for a week.
‘Hey,’ Enzio roared. ‘Anna Maria makes the best spaghetti in town. You’re a lucky man, Frank, you know that, huh?’ He paused, belching loudly. ‘Of course, I could give her a few hints about the sauce. A little more garlic, stronger wine…’
Anna Maria giggled timidly.
Frank glanced at Beth. She had entered the room to assist the youngest child with his food. Her long hair was tied off her face, and she looked pale. He wondered how quickly Anna Maria would fall asleep tonight, and how long before he could be with Beth.
A nerve throbbed in his cheek. There would be business to discuss after dinner; it could turn out to be a lengthy evening.
After dessert and coffee Enzio sent Anna Maria and the children from the room. ‘Men’s talk,’ he explained with a wink, sipping from a small glass of Sambuca. Enzio continued to speak, his eyes fixed firmly on Frank. ‘It
doesn’t take long,’ he said sourly, his good humor evaporating, ‘for the word to get around when you got no balls.’
‘What?’ Frank jumped, feeling anger and frustration flood through his body.
‘In our business, somebody throws a hit on you, you shove it right back at ’em. You don’t fuck around. No way.’
‘I’ve been lookin’ to find out who’s responsible,’ Frank replied, his voice a surly mutter.
‘Fuck that!’ Suddenly Enzio was screaming. ‘Who gives a shit ’bout who’s to blame? What you do is pile some action on all the fuckers—you’ll hit the dirt with one of ’em. Huh? Listen to an old man, Frankie boy—Don’t let nobody shit on you. ’Cos if you do, we’ll all end up under the pile.’
* * *
Lara prowled around her apartment like a stranger. She hated the draped paisley fabric ceiling, the matching walls, the small round table with a collection of interesting miniature boxes.
She loathed the exotic plants climbing up the antique-mirrored hall. She couldn’t stand the zebra throw rugs, the brown leather couches.
Her apartment had been designed by a decorator; there were no personal touches. About the only place she felt at home was the bathroom. Here, among the rows of makeup, atomizers, and brushes, she could relax.
The apartment had been put together with a view to looking sensational in the fashion and beautiful-home magazines. And indeed it did. Lara had spent more time being photographed in it than living there.
She decided that when the whole business with Nick was over she would sell it. It was pointless to surround oneself with somebody else’s idea of good taste.
When would the whole business with Nick be over? Wasn’t it just beginning?
Sometimes she felt so confused. Was the revenge going to work? If April Crawford left Nick, was it going to affect him that much? And after she’d consoled him for a few weeks, when she dumped him, what then? Even if he was destroyed, how was that really going to punish Enzio Bassalino?
She gave a deep sigh. At the time Rio’s revenge had sounded perfect. But now… well, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe Dukey was the one with the right ideas.
The Love Killers Page 9