The Love Killers (9 page)

The bedroom she occupied overlooked the front of the house, and she waited patiently by the window. At two in the morning a car drew up with three men inside. Frank and another man got out and walked over to the front door. Once Frank was inside his bodyguard returned to the car, and after a few moments it drove off. Frank was safely home.

Beth remained at the window, her mouth dry with anticipation. She knew Frank's routine so well. First he would go to his dressing room, where he would change into his pajamas and robe. Then into the big, old-fashioned kitchen, where he would make himself coffee and toast.

Another car moved slowly past the house. Its headlights dipped; two men were inside. Frank seemed to have bodyguards to look after the bodyguards.

Still she waited, not moving, shivering slightly. What if she went to the kitchen and he wanted her? What then? She didn't know how to maneuver people, pull the strings. She wasn't like Lara or Rio.

Frank Bassalino was a hard, strong man. How
did
one destroy a man like that?

Thoughts of Margaret drifted through her head. And of Enzio Bassalino—the man who'd ordered Margaret to be assassinated.

Beth knew she had to avenge her sister's death. And she knew exactly what had to be done.

* * *

Frank was brooding and thoughtful. There was trouble all over. The cops were tightening up, more money or further harassment. The Crown gang were causing disturbance; something would have to be done about those sons of bitches. On top of everything else, Enzio was driving him crazy, phoning to complain about this and that. The old man must have spies everywhere. Enzio Bassalino was supposed to be retired; why the fuck didn't he keep his nose out of business that wasn't his anymore?

There was also the protection problem. Several restaurants and clubs under the ‘security' of Frank Bassalino and his organization were being leaned on to put their faith in other directions. There had been a few unfortunate incidents, and the owners of certain establishments were beginning to wonder why they should pay protection to Frank Bassalino,
and
the cops, and
still
get hit.

Frank suspected a black group headed by narcotics king Bosco Sam was behind the trouble.

Rumor had it Bosco Sam had big plans for muscling in on Bassalino and Crown territories.

Frank had sent out word he was prepared to meet with Bosco Sam to discuss things.

In the meantime the clubs and restaurants were persuaded it was in their best interests to keep up their payments. It was a problem Frank was confident he could deal with on his own.

At home there was Anna Maria, with her belly so swollen a man couldn't even get a good fuck anymore, and Frank didn't like to go elsewhere. The last time had been bad. Esther's place, a new girl. Esther
knew
what he was like, so he figured the hooker would be prepared. She was a black-eyed girl, full-breasted and meaty-thighed. He'd turned her over and rammed it to her from behind. A slow count of ten, then wham—he'd pulled her head back and started to slap her, squeezing her breasts, hands paddling her buttocks.

As he got rougher the whore began to struggle and fight back. He enjoyed this action until she started to scream. Her nose was bleeding, and the whole thing was a mess. The bitch was yelling for the cops, and it took Esther some time to calm her down.

Frank left, angry and moody. It hadn't been satisfactory. That had been two weeks previously, and now he would have to make do with Anna Maria.

Ah, in the beginning his wife had been so sweet. Ripe and lovely. Young and untouched.

As he was thinking this, Beth entered the kitchen. She was like a dream come true.

‘Excuse me, Mr. Bassalino,' she said in a low voice. ‘I didn't realize anyone was up. I couldn't sleep and thought I would make some warm milk.'

‘Warm milk is for old maids,' he said slowly. Christ! He'd never realized how delicate and pretty she was.

With a nervous laugh she took the milk carton from the fridge.

He watched her as she bent to take a pan from the cupboard and began to pour the milk into it. She wore no makeup. He liked that. Women who plastered on the gunk always reminded him of hookers. Hot, dirty tarts in black bras and garter belts. The kind his father liked. The kind his father had introduced him to when he was thirteen years of age.

‘The job workin' out?' he asked.

‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Bassalino.' She concentrated on stirring the milk, a curtain of fine blond hair falling across her face.

‘The kids treatin' you okay?'

‘Yes, they're lovely children.' She turned to look at him, and he got a whiff of virgin skin.

At that moment Beth knew everything was set. If only she could go through with it and hide her revulsion.

‘Uh… you're a nice-looking girl,' he said. ‘How come you're hidin' away watchin' someone else's kids?'

‘I enjoy leading a quiet life, Mr. Bassalino.'

‘You do, huh?' He stared at her reflectively.

The milk began to boil. Beth watched it bubble and froth to the top of the pan until it finally cascaded over the top and onto her hand.

She screamed out in genuine pain.

‘What the f—' Frank started to say. Then he saw what she'd done and smothered her hand in great globs of butter.

‘I'm sorry.' She stared at him with very blue vulnerable eyes. ‘I guess I wasn't concentrating on what I was doing.'

They were close, so close that the very smell of him made her want to run. Instead she forced herself to lean even nearer.

Without warning he picked her up, holding her under the arms the way you lift a child, and commenced to kiss her—slowly at first, and then stronger, harder.

She didn't say anything, allowing her lips to stay dry and closed, puckering them only slightly.

‘Christ!' he exclaimed. ‘You're so light, like one of the kids. Shit! You don't even know how to kiss. How old
are
you, anyway?'

She was a captive in his arms. He had such enormous strength she felt he could crush her to bits if he wanted to.

‘I'm twenty,' she whispered.

‘Have you ever had a man?'

Valiantly she attempted to push away from him. ‘Mr. Bassalino—please—you're hurting me. Let go.'

He released her abruptly. ‘You know what I want to do?' he said thickly. ‘You know what, honey?'

She nodded, lowering her eyes.

There was no stopping him now. ‘We'll go to your room,' he said gruffly. ‘Nobody's gonna know. You ever done it before?'

He was hoping she would say no. He hadn't had a virgin since Anna Maria. In fact, the only other women he had been with had all been prostitutes.

‘I'm not a virgin,' she said, the rehearsed lines flowing easily. ‘Once before, when I was very young—only twelve—my stepfather came to my room. He was drunk. I didn't understand what he was doing. Later I had a baby. There's been no one since.'

Frank digested this information silently. It appealed to him. One time with a drunken relative, it hardly counted. And only twelve at the time.

He slid his hand beneath the bodice of her nightgown.

‘Mr. Bassalino, I can't.' Her eyes were wide with fear. ‘Your wife, the children, it's not right…'

‘I'll pay you,' he said, watching her shrewdly. ‘One hundred dollars—cash. How about
that?

Shaking her head, she said, ‘I don't think you understand. I do find you attractive, but the circumstances are wrong. I'm employed by you. I have your trust and your wife's. If we—well, you know—how could I face myself tomorrow?'

He was impressed with the girl's honesty. He didn't come across many people who had scruples; it made a refreshing change. However, it still didn't solve the problem of what he had for her. ‘How about if I fire you?' he suggested.

‘That's a silly idea. Besides, I need the job.'

He was fascinated by her soft blond hair, virgin hair. He had an urge to wrap it around his feet—other things. He wanted her now. Nobody got away with refusing Frank Bassalino.

‘What do you want?' he asked thickly. Experience told him there was always a price.

‘Nothing,' she whispered. ‘I knew when I first saw you I shouldn't have taken the job. You're the first man I sensed was different. I knew you'd understand.' She paused, playing him like a fish. ‘You're also the first man I've felt anything for.' Her eyes were downcast. ‘But you're married. So it's impossible.'

‘Nothin's impossible,' he said, wrapping her up in his big arms again, and smothering her with kisses while his hands roamed over her body.

She struggled—a futile act; he was even stronger than the men who'd raped her.

Exhaustion overcame her, and a feeling of relief. It would happen soon, it was what he wanted, and it was exactly what she had planned.

She hardly noticed him carrying her to her room. All the while he was mumbling, ‘It's gonna be all right. Nobody's gonna know.'

She was glad she'd smoked a joint earlier; it had certainly taken the edge off things, made her as relaxed as she could be under the circumstances.

Roughly pulling off her nightgown, he locked the door and struggled out of his clothes.

‘I'm not going to hurt you,' he promised, crawling all over her. ‘It won't be like before. You'd better believe it.'

Recoiling from the weight of his body, she shut her eyes as he pushed her legs apart. And then she felt him, and the tension slipped away, and she almost smiled.

Frank Bassalino was endowed with no greater gift than a ten-year-old boy.

Leroy Jesus Bauls stood motionless at the door to the restaurant. His hard cinnamon eyes flicked slowly over the occupants, finally coming to rest on one man sitting at a corner table.

The maître d' was walking toward Leroy, his mouth open, ready to say there was no room. It was a fancy restaurant, and they didn't encourage blacks, even if they were well-dressed and expensive-looking, like Leroy.

But before the maître d' could reach him Leroy had placed the parcel he was carrying on the floor, given it a swift kick in the direction of the corner table, turned, and left.

The maître d' scratched his head in a puzzled fashion and started toward the parcel.

* * *

On television later that night there was a full report of the incident. The Magic Lantern, a popular Manhattan restaurant, had been blown apart by a bomb. Fourteen people were dead, twenty-four injured. The police were working on several leads.

‘BULL
SHIT
,' muttered Leroy Jesus Bauls, walking over and switching the television off.

‘What did you say, hon?' a black girl of startling beauty asked. She was in her mid-twenties, with curled auburn hair and almond-shaped brown eyes.

‘Nothin',' Leroy replied. ‘Nothin' to interest you.'

‘Everything about you interests me,' she whispered, nuzzling up behind him, stroking his hair.

Impatiently he shook her off. How nice it would be to find a girl able to keep her hands off him.

Leroy was twenty-two. Six feet, slight of build but extremely strong. Straight features, perfectly symmetric, inherited from his Swedish mother. Dark brown skin, inherited from his Jamaican father.

He was always dressed impeccably. Suits, vests, silk shirts. Even his socks and undershorts were made of the purest silk.

Leroy favored black as a color, in clothes, women, cars, and furniture.

His mother had given him the taste for expensive things. His mother had also turned him off white people for life.

‘How about catching a movie tonight?' the girl asked. ‘We could go to the late show. I'm not working tomorrow, so—'

‘I don't think so, Melanie,' he said. ‘
I
have to work later.'

‘What do you do?' Melanie asked curiously. She had known him for three weeks, slept with him for two, and still knew nothing about him except that he had a nice apartment and plenty of money and was interesting to be with.

‘I've told you, don't be nosy,' Leroy said, his voice flat. ‘I do…uh… things that wouldn't interest you—deals, business matters.'

‘Oh!' She was silent, then, ‘What time do you have to go out?'

‘Later.'

‘I could stay, keep the bed warm. I don't have to be up early, so if you liked I could stay all night. Yes?'

‘Yeah—some other time, though.'

Melanie's mouth tightened into a thin line. She was very beautiful and unused to turndowns. ‘You've got another girl,' she accused. ‘That's it. You're going out to see someone else.'

He sighed. They were all the same. They all wanted to own you. Why couldn't he find a woman who would keep her cool? He always chose very carefully. No hookers, junkies, or hustlers in any sense. He went out with black models, actresses, singers. Melanie, for instance, had recently been on the cover of
Cosmopolitan,
and the girl before her was a runner-up in the Miss Black America competition.

‘Don't blow it,' he hissed as she turned on the tears. ‘It ain't gonna work. Your lovely eyes gonna get all red and runny, and that I don't like.'

‘Shall I stay then?' she questioned tearfully.

Leroy shook his head. ‘I told you. Didn't I tell you? I got business to conduct.'

Rio attracted freaks the way a bitch in heat attracts dogs. They clustered around her in thrilled little groups, clad in outlandish clothes, high on anything that happened to be around, gossipy, bitchy.

Rio didn't mind. She could get it together with anyone as far as having a warm, generous relationship was concerned. She looked for the good in everyone, and if she didn't find it, she looked again.

Straight men were her only difficulty. Like Larry Bolding, for instance. She found they were all full of such ridiculous hang-ups, dishonesty, and bullshit. It turned her off. She became feline and hard in their company.