The Love Killers (16 page)

Later he visited Cass. ‘I'm leaving the apartment soon,' he told her.

The apartment he'd shared with Margaret held too many memories. He had to forget about the past. Remembrances of Margaret were making every day painful. When her death was avenged, he wanted to be ready to move on.

Cass told him about Anna Maria Bassalino and Beth's sudden return to the commune.

‘Pull the other two out,' he warned harshly, ‘
I'm
takin' over now. I'm doin' it my way, and I don't want them around, screwin' things up.'

‘What are you going to do?' Cass asked, alarmed.

‘It's better you don't know,' he replied.

Back home he called his manager. ‘Let's get the show on the road again. I'm gonna be ready to work sooner than you think.'

His manager was delighted.

Next he called Leroy. ‘Why don't we cut the overture an' get down to business? I want this finished. Start with Frank at the funeral for his wife, an' then take care of the house in Miami. No more waiting. Put your plan into action. The money will be ready when you are.'

‘It's as good as done,' Leroy replied. He didn't make idle promises.

Angelo had trouble forcing his eyes open. With a supreme effort he managed it and blinked several times. His eyes felt crusty and bloodshot. Serious hangover eyes.

For a moment he was completely disoriented, and then he remembered where he was. He was alone on Rio's bed in her apartment. The drapes were closed, and he had no idea if it was night or day.

His body ached, and there was an uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling about his backside.

‘Jesus Christ!' He sat up slowly, gingerly. What the hell had happened to him?

He clearly remembered coming to her apartment, and Rio greeting him. He remembered the fantastic sex scene they'd had, and the ammis, the pot, the drinks. Then everything went blank. One long—how long?—great big blank.

It must have been the drinks. Those thick creamy rum concoctions Rio had dipped her fingers in and fed him with. They'd knocked him out.

Where was she, anyway?

Unsteadily he got up, aware of the difference in his body, beginning to be much more aware of how it must have happened.

He had to take a piss, and he groped his way into the bathroom.

Scotch-taped to the mirror were six color Polaroids, leaving him in no doubt as to what had happened. In case he was not convinced, Rio had written across the mirror in bright red lipstick: RIGHT ON BABY! I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE A FAG.

With mounting horror he stared at the Polaroids. They showed him with a plumpish, dark man and a beautiful blond girl. Only she wasn't a girl, she couldn't be a girl, because in spite of her breasts she also featured a formidable penis.

Angelo had always feared men getting close to him. He hated being touched by them. Even a friendly back pat irritated him. All his life he'd scrupulously avoided any male contact. And now this.

In the pictures he was smiling, laughing. He actually looked like he was
enjoying
it.

Panic overcame him. God Almighty! If anyone
saw
these pictures. If his
father
should see them. Holy shit! It didn't bear thinking about.

Hurriedly he ripped the offending Polaroids off the mirror and tore them into small pieces, flushing the bits down the toilet.

He took a deep breath. With the evidence gone he felt calmer.

What was he worried about anyway? He wasn't gay; half of the women in London could testify to
that.

It was that bitch Rio's fault. She'd spiked his drink and had her fun. Where was the cow?

He searched the apartment. It was empty. She must have planned the whole sick scene.

Well, he wasn't going to let her get away with it. He would think of
some
form of retaliation to blow her away.

* * *

With Nick gone, Lara was keyed up and agitated. Things had worked out as she'd planned, but what if April took Nick back? It wasn't a likely prospect, but what if she did? Then all her scheming and planning would count for nothing—a useless waste of time.

Maybe. Maybe not. Was it useless she'd finally met a man who could make her feel emotions other than how big his bank balance was, or what kind of title he held?

Was it useless she'd fallen in love for the first time ever?

None of it mattered. Whatever the outcome, she didn't care to be involved anymore. And she certainly never wanted to set eyes on Nick Bassalino again.

For insurance she decided to call Prince Alfredo in Rome, or wherever he was, and summon him to fetch her. And then she would phone Cass and tell her it was over.

Decision made, she felt better. Or did she? Nick Bassalino was on her mind, and he wasn't going to be that easy to forget.

* * *

Nick went to Frank's house. The children were whiny and noisy.

‘Where's the nanny?' he asked.

‘Gone,' Frank mumbled. He was drinking neat whiskey, hunched in a chair, his eyes bloodshot, his appearance unkempt.

‘Jesus, Frank, I'm sorry about everything…' Nick trailed off. He'd never been very close to his older brother. When they were kids Frank used to beat the shit out of him. Frank had always been the biggest and the strongest, and he'd never let Nick forget it.

Nick wandered into the room where Golli and Segal were watching television. It was such a depressing house. Old and worn. It was a house that must have looked the same twenty, even thirty years previously. He thought with longing of his own place in Los Angeles. Big and spacious. White and modern. Then he thought of April's rambling mansion, with the lake in the garden and the swimming pool in the living room. California was the only place for him. He enjoyed the climate, the people, the whole relaxed way of living. You could shove New York. Dirty pavements and uptight people. Everyone white-faced and hustling, scurrying around like guests at a rat-fuck.

He went upstairs and placed another call to April. It was the same story. She refused to speak to him. He told Hattie he was delayed, and why. ‘Be sure to tell her why,' he emphasized. April was liable to think he was hanging around to be with Lara.

Thinking of Lara, it had been nice, she was a very lovely lady. But beautiful girls were a plague in Los Angeles. You fell over them everywhere you went. April Crawford was an original, and Nick was confident she would forgive him once he explained there was nothing to it. Lara just happened to be on the same plane—coincidence—it could happen to anyone. And April understood what went on in the gossip columns—pure hokum—nobody ever believed the garbage they printed.

Yes, Nick was sure everything was going to work out fine.

Restlessly he wondered what Lara was doing. Would she hang up if he called her?

He wasn't about to risk finding out. Nope. Best to forget her.

He'd wanted her. He'd had her. End of story.

Christ, it was going to be boring, hanging around the house with Frank.

‘Hey, Segal,' he yelled downstairs. ‘How about a game of poker? Any cards around this mausoleum?'

Mary Ann August woke up in Los Angeles. She couldn't remember much about getting there. After Alio Marcusi had slobbered all over her there had been another visitor, a woman named Claire.

Mary Ann could remember being frightened and telling Claire that when Enzio found out what had happened there would be plenty of trouble. Claire had laughed and called her honey. ‘Don't worry, honey, Enzio knows all about it. He wants you to come on a little journey with me.'

Then Claire had stuck a needle into her arm, making her groggy and docile, and she had dressed and left the hotel with Claire, and there had been a car journey, then an airplane, another car trip, and after that a house, a room, and sleep. Now she was awake.

She got up and took stock of her surroundings. She was in a bedroom, a plain room with olive-green walls and shuttered windows. The shutters wouldn't open, nor would the door.

She peered at herself in a mirror. Her teased hair was sad and straggly, her makeup streaked and faded.

Nothing annoyed Mary Ann more than not looking her best. Searching for her purse, she found it on the floor. Painstakingly she applied fresh makeup and redid her hair. When the two jobs were finished she finally allowed herself to wonder where she was and what was going on.

During her six months with Enzio, Mary Ann had acquired quite a few possessions. Jewelry, clothes, a mink coat—and, of course, her latest acquisition, the full-length chinchilla.

She was thinking of those things now. They were her protection when Enzio finally got tired of her. They would buy her a decent future so she wouldn't have to go back to dancing around naked on a stage for a living. She would kill rather than lose her possessions.

The woman Claire came into the room. She was fortyish and slim, slightly masculine-looking.

‘I don't understand,' Mary Ann said in her best baby-girl voice. ‘Where's Enzio? Why does he want me here?'

Claire shrugged. ‘He figured you needed a change, honey. He knows I have lots of nice friends here in L.A., and he thought you'd enjoy meeting some of them.'

‘Why didn't he tell me?'

Claire put her arm across Mary Ann's shoulders. ‘Enzio told me one of your best qualities is that you don't ask a lot of silly questions.' She narrowed her eyes. ‘You're a very pretty girl, but that hairstyle will have to go.'

‘Enzio likes my hair this way,' Mary Ann said stubbornly.

‘Get used to it, kitten. Enzio won't be around for a while.'

‘What about my things? My clothes and jewelry? My fur coats?'

‘Don't worry about them,' Claire replied easily. ‘Enzio's having them sent. Be a good girl and cooperate with me—that way everything's gonna turn out okay.'

Dumb as she was, Mary Ann was slowly beginning to realize all was not well.

Shifty Fly saw Angelo safely aboard the big jumbo jet bound for New York. ‘Don't think it hasn't been fun, Yank,' he sneered.

‘Listen, man,' Angelo said. ‘Why are you so uptight? I understand you've got your job to do. Only thing is, you're not too good at it.'

Shifty Fly glared at him. He'd had a right dressing down from Eddie Ferrantino for allowing Angelo to give him the slip.

‘Don't wait around on my account,' Angelo continued. ‘I'm not going anywhere.' Leaning back in his seat, he shut his eyes, hoping that by the time he opened them Shifty Fly would be gone. He was.

The day had been a fuck-up. Screaming from every direction. Enzio in New York. Eddie Ferrantino in London. Christ knows what he was supposed to have done. Free, white, and over twenty-one, he'd shacked up with a broad and not told anyone where he was. Terrible thing. A crime.

‘Would you like to order a drink, sir?' asked the stewardess. She was pretty in a plastic, groomed sort of way.

Normally he would have imagined screwing her, but his head was so full of other things he hardly noticed her. ‘Just a Coke,' he said.

The two seats beside him were empty, and that pleased him. Later he hoped to be able to lie down and sleep. He needed the rest.

He was apprehensive about seeing his father. Enzio was sure to scream about the way he looked. He hadn't even had time to get his hair trimmed, and it was now as long and thick as a rock star's.

If only he could tell Enzio Bassalino to go fuck himself. But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. Yet he wasn't sure
why
he couldn't.

As the big jet taxied down the runway Angelo allowed himself to think about Rio. She was some woman, the sort of woman who would stand up to someone like Enzio. One thing about Rio Java. She was an original. She did her own thing.

On the other hand, she was a sadistic bitch. And he wasn't happy about her hyping his drink and involving him in her orgy with her own personal band of perverts. Just whom exactly did she think she was dealing with? He wasn't some schmuck off the street.

He wondered if she would call him. His fast departure for New York had to surprise her. Maybe she would think he was running away. From what? He had nothing to run from. So some guy had made it with him. Big fucking deal. Most men had at least one homosexual experience in their lives.

But when he thought about it his skin began to crawl, his stomach to churn, and a helpless excitement crept through his body. Deep down he knew, although he wouldn't admit it, that it was something he would want to try again.

* * *

Lara went to Kennedy Airport to meet Prince Alfredo Masserini. She had called him, told him she needed him, and although he was in the middle of a backgammon tournament in Gstaad, he had promised to fly to her side at once.

She'd decided to meet his plane because she had to keep occupied. Too much thinking was driving her crazy. Nick Bassalino was on her mind with a vengeance, and she didn't know how to forget him.

Prince Alfredo should be able to make her forget.

Sure,
a mocking inner voice told her.

At the airport she bumped straight into Nick.

They stared at each other for a moment of complete surprise, then Lara smiled the hurt out of her eyes and extended a hand for her customary European handshake. ‘Are you returning to Los Angeles?' she asked politely, silently adding, and April?

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘My brother's coming in from London. I'm meeting him. What are you doing here?'

‘Uh… I have friends arriving from Europe.' She didn't know why she hadn't said my fiancé, Prince Alfredo Masserini, a Roman prince, not a miserable half-breed Yankee Italian like you.

Twenty-four hours previously they had been in bed together. Now they stood like polite strangers.

Nick peered at his watch. Lara glanced around in the faint hope she might bump into someone else she knew. Someone who could rescue her.