‘What’s going on?’ Lennie looked around and didn’t like the whole scene. He had clearly told his mother not to bring any of her friends to the house.
‘Lennie! My son,’ Alice fluttered, sitting up and gesturing dramatically. ‘They’ve kidnapped Bobby and Brigette. They’ve taken the babies.’
There were three cars parked in the driveway of the Bonnatti residence. Steven pulled up behind a sickly yellow Toyota in the Hertz Ford he had rented at the airport. A call to the hospital in New York on arrival had given him the news that Mary-Lou was hanging in there. Carrie had elected to stay with Mary-Lou’s family at the hospital when he informed her that he had to go immediately to Los Angeles. ‘Why?’ she had asked, with concern.
‘Because sometimes,’ he had replied calmly, ‘the law does not cover getting through the day.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
It didn’t matter whether she understood or not. He knew what he had to do.
He got out of his rented car and rang the doorbell.
Donatella Bonnatti herself answered the door. For years Santino had tried to train her to use servants, but Donatella had no use for people waiting on her, she preferred to be a martyr and do everything herself. ‘You thinka they clean? No! They cleana like shit!’ she would complain hotly. ‘You thinka they cook? Pasta shit they cook!’ So while Santino surrounded himself with bodyguards, Donatella preferred the company of two elderly Italian aunts who did things the old way and came by the house three times a week.
Today she was on her own. And even though it was Saturday, she had decided to scrub down the vast kitchen floor while Santino and the children were out.
She came to the front door, hair awry, plain features shining with the sweat of hard work, a flowered cotton housedress covering her considerable bulk.
‘Whata ya want?’ she asked, looking Steven up and down.
Naturally he assumed she was the maid. In one hand she held an old-fashioned broom which she leaned on as she surveyed him with sharp Sicilian eyes.
He spoke slowly, measuredly. ‘I need to speak to Santino Bonnatti. It’s a matter of urgency.’
She sucked on a hard candy. ‘You gotta the appointment?’
‘I flew in from New York. I came straight from the airport. Is Mr Bonnatti home?’
Donatella was not aware Santino was doing business with blacks. He told her nothing. She only knew his secretiveness sometimes drove her mad. As her husband, he should share things with her, but he confided nothing.
‘Whatsa this about?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’ Steven replied.
She laughed hoarsely. ‘You think I’ma the maid, huh? I know, I know.’ She smoothed down her housedress. ‘Nobody worka their ass in Beverly Hills. I’ma Mrs Bonnatti.’
* * *
Gino and Paige stopped for a leisurely lunch somewhere along the Pacific Coast Highway. They enjoyed fresh lobster and a bottle of wine. They enjoyed each other’s company.
In all his years Gino had never been really involved with a married woman. Oh sure, he had experienced one-night stands, afternoon matinees and the like. Once, long ago in his youth, he had indulged in a steamy affair with the super-sophisticated Clementine Duke – wife of a Senator. But this thing with Paige was different. He was an old man and she allowed him to feel alive. She made him laugh, and he knew he wanted her in his life on a permanent basis.
After lunch he broached the subject casually. ‘You ever thought of leavin’ Ryder?’
They were seated at a table by the window overlooking a magnificent ocean view. She gazed out to sea. ‘Ryder needs me,’ she said quietly. ‘So do my children.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘True.’
‘Your old man wouldn’t give a camel’s crap if you walked out tomorrow. An’ your kids are all grown up.’
She looked at him levelly. ‘Thanks a lot. You certainly know how to make a person feel wanted.’
‘C’mon, kiddo. I want you. That’s what I’m sayin’.’
‘You’ve got me.’
‘For a lousy weekend.’
‘Maybe more might be too much for both of us.’
He couldn’t figure her out. Why wasn’t she jumping? All his life women had jumped.
Maybe that’s why he liked her. Paige did what she wanted,
when
she wanted.
‘I’d better call the house,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘Otherwise they’ll be summonin’ the FBI.’
She watched him walk from the restaurant. He had style, Gino Santangelo, real style.
Seeing Boogie made Lucky feel safe. He was always at her side in times of trouble, and she knew she could depend on him.
He was his usual understated self in faded army fatigues and scuffed sneakers. Under his arm he carried a leather bag stuffed with the ransom money. His pale blue eyes darted this way and that as they hurried toward the car.
She told him once again everything she knew. ‘Do you think we should bring the police in?’ she asked anxiously, not quite sure of her own decision.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘No outside interference.’
She was glad he was with her. Since Gino was on the missing list, Boogie was her only security.
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ she explained. ‘We’ll make the ransom drop at Farmer’s Market, and hope and pray the children are returned. Caveman will follow the money pick-up—’
‘No. I’ll do that,’ Boogie interrupted quickly. ‘There’s nobody better at shadowing than me.’
‘Good. We’ll have a surveillance truck with full telephone contact and radio communication. Everything’s being set up.’ She waved a slip of paper at him. ‘This is the latest address of the guy I think’s involved. Tim Wealth – an out-of-work actor. The Guardian is checking the address now – he’ll phone as soon as he comes up with information.’
Boogie looked at her penetratingly. ‘And how are you coping?’
She was silent for a moment. When she finally spoke her voice was tense yet laced with steel. ‘I’ll be all right, I just want the children back safely. And when I get them . . .’ Her black eyes hardened. ‘. . . the sonofabitch who took them will wish he never lived.’
The Bonnatti living room was immaculate, every piece of furniture polished to a dazzling shine. The damask couch featured plastic coverings on each arm, and there was a black grand piano in one corner with an old lace shawl thrown over it, and lots of fake antique frames filled with family photographs on the top.
Steven didn’t care to sit down. He was not there for social niceties. ‘Mrs Bonnatti,’ he said. ‘Your husband is the lowest form of human life.’ He threw the copy of
Comer
magazine he had brought with him onto a table. ‘The lady on the front is my fian-cée’, he said angrily. ‘Or rather, the face is hers, the body is not.’
‘Eh! Why you showa me this?’ Donatella shrieked. ‘I no lika these filthy magazines inna my house.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Steven said harshly. ‘But your husband has no such objections.
He publishes
them.’
He picked up the magazine and flicked through it until he reached the pictorial spread that purported to be Mary-Lou. ‘Take a look at these pictures, Mrs Bonnatti.’ He thrust the magazine toward her. ‘These are
fake
pictures. You understand me? Fake! Mary-Lou Moore’s face and somebody else’s body.’
‘I no looka this dirt,’ Donatella insisted, sorry now she had invited this stranger in. She had hoped to find out something about her husband, but not this sort of something.
‘Mary-Lou Moore tried to kill herself because of these pictures,’ he said roughly. ‘She tried to kill herself because of your
sick, sadistic
husband.’
‘I donta know nothing,’ Donatella said sulkily.
‘No? Well isn’t it about time you started finding out? If I were you I—’
The phone rang and he stopped abruptly. Glad of the diversion, Donatella rushed to answer it. If it was Santino she would order him home at once. He would be angry she had allowed a stranger into the house, especially a
black
stranger. Santino was always warning her about crime and robberies, and the very risk of stepping out onto the street.
Goddamn
Santino. If he was involved with filthy magazines she would never forgive him. He had a publishing company, but they published computer and technical things, Santino had told her so himself.
Ah . . . but could she trust him? He never confided much of anything. She knew he was involved in certain bad things, but over the years she had grown used to his secretive ways concerning business. ‘Never you bringa anything home,’ she had once warned him. And he never had.
Now she had pornography in her own house, and the black man claimed Santino was responsible.
She picked up the phone. ‘Whosa this?’ she shouted.
A husky female voice. ‘Mrs Bonnatti? Donatella?’
Impatient. ‘Yes, yes. Whosa this?’
‘There is a house on Blue Jay Way in the Hollywood Hills where your husband keeps his mistress,’ the voice whispered.
‘What? Whata you talking?’
‘Mistress. Girlfriend. Sexual playmate.’ The voice murmured the full address, then added, ‘Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?’ Click.
The Irish maid in the New York hotel complained to the night manager when she got off duty at 6.45 p.m. ‘Goddammit, Albert, I can’t be gettin’ inta room four twenty-five all day long.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ the long-haired manager replied.
‘I ain’t
worried,’
she replied scornfully. ‘But I got half me supplies locked up in that big storage cupboard in the bathroom.’
‘You’ll get ‘em out tomorrow.’
‘If he’s not lyin’ dead in his bed,’ she sniffed.
‘Who?’
‘That musician person – Flash.’
The night manager twitched his nostrils. He had just returned from vacation and didn’t know the legendary Flash was staying with them. ‘Why do you say a thing like that?’ he asked, thinking the woman was a flake, but he’d humour her anyway.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time in this hotel,’ sniffed the maid. ‘And that room is too quiet today. He’s usually got music playin’ and people comin’ and goin’.’
‘Let’s go see,’ suggested the manager, eager to meet the rock star.
The maid laughed derisively. ‘Look at you! Can’t wait to view a body! Shame on you.’
‘Come on,’ he encouraged, walking out from behind the desk.
‘Go yourself,’ she said rudely. ‘I’m off to cook me husband’s dinner, and he doesn’t take kindly to its bein’ late.’
She hurried off, and the busy switchboard caught the manager’s attention. He fielded a few calls, then decided that maybe he should take the opportunity of meeting the great Flash in person. He removed the pass key from a drawer, and left the desk in charge of a stoned Puerto Rican porter. Not that he was exactly straight himself. Nothing serious. A couple of Quaaludes just to get him through the night shift. Maybe Flash would have something better to offer him.
Puffed with anticipation he rang for the rusty elevator.
They made it to Farmer’s Market on Fairfax with twenty minutes to spare. Parked next door in the CBS parking lot was the surveillance van Lucky had requested. Its driver was an ex-detective named Dave.
‘Wire both me and Boogie,’ Lucky instructed, ‘I’ll do the drop and Boogie’s going to handle the tail. You’ll stick with him, and keep in full contact with me.’
‘No problem,’ Dave said. He was tall and agile, and would be well compensated for his trouble.
Lucky hoped he was smart. She needed smart more than anything.
* * *
Santino had a naturally suspicious nature. And even though the people who worked for him professed to-the-death loyalty he didn’t trust them one inch. Certainly picking up a million bucks cash was too much temptation to put in anyone’s path. So he decided to stay along for the ride, and see that a couple of hundred thousand didn’t vanish along the way. If what Tim Wealth promised was true, the entire operation was a cinch.
Lucky Santangelo must be going through the fucking ceiling, and he was glad. She would go through a whole lot more before she ever saw her kid again –
if
she ever saw her kid again.
Santino smiled to himself. What a day this had turned out to be – there was no revenge sweeter than a revenge long awaited.
* * *
Farmer’s Market was a tourist’s paradise, a large complex of open-air souvenir shops, trinket emporiums, and a covered food market selling everything from mangos to Italian salami.
Lucky found the B. Dalton bookstore right in the middle. Slowly she walked toward it, carrying the leather carry-all containing the ransom money. Outwardly she was calm, but a cold anger beat inside her head, and she wanted to scream aloud with fury and frustration.