‘Yeah?’
‘Put me on to Lucky.’
The sound was muffled, then her voice.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded.
She knew it was him immediately, but this was not the time for a reunion.
‘I’m taking care of it, Lennie,’ she said breathlessly.
He exploded with fury.
‘You’re
taking care of it. What about the police?’
‘No police,’ she said calmly. ‘Trust me.’
‘Where are you?’ he repeated urgently.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Like hell you can’t!’ He had never felt so helpless in his life.
‘We’re approaching Blue Jay Way,’ The Guardian said.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Lucky breathed into the phone. ‘I’ll have the children any minute.’
‘Where the fuck
are
you?’ Lennie screamed.
There was no harm in telling him now. By the time he got there it would be all over.
‘No police,’ she insisted.
‘You got it.’
Quickly she told him where they were. He threw the phone down and raced from the house.
The night manager of the New York hotel stood outside the door of room 425, and knocked several times.
When there was no reply he slipped his pass key in the lock, and entered.
At first he thought they were asleep – the legendary rock star and the fat blonde. They were sprawled grotesquely naked across the bed.
The night manager stood very still and listened for the sound of breathing. He drew closer, observing the signs of an all-night dope party. There were bottles of pills spilled on a bedside table, an empty syringe, a half-filled glassine bag of white powder, and other drug paraphernalia.
The night manager sniffed, smelled death, and shuddered. It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed such a sight, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But he had never seen a famous person dead before.
The room was horribly silent, only the street sounds outside broke the oppressive hush.
Gingerly he moved even nearer and peered at Flash, who was open-mouthed, his rotting teeth on show.
With a stealthy movement he tasted a touch of the white powder lying in the half-empty bag next to the bed.
Cocaine.
He pocketed the bag quickly.
Then he looked at the blonde. She was puffy-faced, her skin a mottled purple – there was something vaguely familiar about her.
Police sirens screamed outside and he jumped, wondering if they were going to stop. They didn’t. They faded into the distance, a regular New York sound.
He supposed he had to do something about this mess. Jesus. It would be an all-night gig what with the news interest and everything. The press were probably going to go crazy. In fact, the press were going to want to interview him. For sure.
He looked at the unhappy couple one last time, and picked up the phone.
* * *
The news hit the wire services just in time for the ten o’clock evening news in New York. In Los Angeles it was seven o’clock.
How the media loved a famous death. Even better, a
double
famous death.
And this one had all the ingredients.
Money.
Sex.
Drugs.
And rock ‘n’ roll.
What more could they ask for?
‘Take your clothes off, chicken,’ Santino ordered.
‘You’d better leave me alone,’ Brigette warned, her eyes dilated with fear.
Santino laughed. He had locked the door and pocketed the key. The real world was shut out and he was alone with this little blonde piece of ass whom he couldn’t wait to stick it to.
Ah . . . but he was not quite alone. Also in the room was the boy. Lucky Santangelo’s son.
If he’d planned it in his most imaginative of dreams he couldn’t have arranged it better.
He took off his jacket and snorted with mirth.
Brigette’s eyes were drawn to the snub-nosed revolver he kept in a shoulder holster strapped to his arm. Her skin crawled and she felt faint as she watched him swagger over to a video camera set on a tripod overlooking the bed and switch it on.
‘Okay, quit stallin’. Get your clothes off,’ he snarled, removing the gun from its holster and pointing it at Roberto, who crouched petrified in a corner.
‘Now,
chicken flesh, or the boy’s gonna get it.’
She was weak with terror. This wasn’t happening to her. It was all a horrifying dream.
She began to cry.
‘Move your ass in front of the camera,’ Santino commanded.
Slowly she did as he ordered.
Suddenly Roberto jumped up and ran over to him, pummelling his leg with tiny fists. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ the boy yelled.
Santino shoved the child away with a brutal thrust, sending him skittering across the room.
Brigette’s sobs increased, but that didn’t bother Santino. He fixed her with a lascivious expression. ‘Get ’em off, chicken. Now. Or I’ll shoot this noisy little fucker right in front of your big blue eyes.’
* * *
Donatella drove past the house on Blue Jay Way and recognized Santino’s car at once. She uttered a long stream of Italian curse words and some English ones as well.
Lying, cheating, whore-mongering Casanova
basta!
How dare he.
HOW DARE HE
!
Father of her children, faithful husband – or so he had always sworn. She had given him the best years of her life and he was nothing but a rutting gutter dog.
She parked and squeezed her angry bulk from behind the wheel.
* * *
As Donatella left her Toyota, so the Lincoln pulled up in front of the surveillance truck further up the hill.
Boogie was there to greet Lucky as she jumped from the car. ‘Santino’s in the house with three other men,’ he stated quickly. ‘And there’s a woman inside too. This is how I see it; Caveman and The Guardian cause a diversion at the front, while I enter through the back.’
‘And what will I be doing? Knitting?’ she asked acidly.
‘You should stay in the car. I’ll bring the children safely out. Trust me.’
‘Your scenario stinks,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘You’ll slow me down,’ he pointed out.
‘Bull. I’ll follow. If I get left behind, that’s my fault.’
‘It could get dangerous.’
She stared at him. ‘Do you know me, Boogie? Do you know me at all?’
There was no point in continuing the argument. Nobody told Lucky Santangelo what to do.
‘I’ll brief the guys,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll move.’
* * *
Muttering to herself, Donatella crunched along the short gravel driveway. Before leaving her house she had changed from her housedress into a sombre brown suit, and sturdy high pumps. She had combed her hair and put on scarlet lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Donatella had never mastered the art of applying make-up, and she looked a sight.
Still muttering, she rang the doorbell of the house on Blue Jay Way, where she confidently expected to find her husband in the arms of some filthy cheap prostitute.
* * *
‘Who’s the woman?’ Cavemen questioned, watching Donatella approach the front door.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lucky replied. ‘She’ll be helpful as far as a diversion goes. You’ll enter behind her – stall a confrontation – think of something to keep a dialogue going at the front – while we hit the back.’
‘Does the FBI scam work for you?’ The Guardian asked, flashing his phony ID card.
‘Perfect,’ Lucky said. ‘Go for it, fellas.’ She followed Boogie on his trip into the surrounding underbrush.
* * *
The Hollywood Hills were confusing. So many winding streets, and all with cul-de-sacs and turnings and more winding streets.
Steven had lost Donatella Bonnatti in her yellow Toyota when she turned off Sunset onto Doheny Drive, and now he couldn’t find her.
It didn’t really matter. He would go back to the Bonnatti residence and wait, for he knew what he was going to do to the scum when they finally came face to face.
* * *
‘What the hell is he doing with those kids?’ Eden asked Blackie, who was in her kitchen searching for something to stuff in his slobbering mouth.
Blackie made a non-committal gesture. Today – if only for a few moments – he had possessed a million bucks. What a moment!
He conveniently forgot that today he had also murdered a man. Cold-bloodedly and with malice shot him in the head.
‘You make me sick,’ Eden said, her voice full of disgust. ‘You work for and ass-kiss a man who is lower than dirt.’ She pushed her face toward him. ‘Look what he’s done to me. What do you think of a man who can do this?’
Blackie threw her a cursory glance. ‘Who cares?’ he said, gnawing on a large piece of cheese.
Eden heard the doorbell ring and held her breath . . .
* * *
‘Yeah?’ Zeko said suspiciously, opening up a crack.
Donatella gave the front door a hefty kick, hurting her foot in the process. ‘Whata
you
do here?’ she demanded. ‘Where you putta my husband?’
Zeko’s mouth hung slackly open. ‘Mrs Bonnatti!’ he stuttered.
‘Yeah. I’ma Mrs Bonnatti. So what? So now I coma inside. Outta my way, you biga oaf.’
Zeko was stumped. What was the boss going to say about
this?
He loosened his hold on the door, and failed to notice the two men coming up behind her.
‘FBI,’ one of them said, holding up identification. ‘We’re investigating one of your neighbours. We’d like you to answer a few questions.’
Brigette cowed, naked, in the middle of the big bed. Tears streaked her cheeks. The sick revolting man had touched her, forced her to pose for the camera. And now he was undressing Bobby and cackling with amusement as the little boy kicked and struggled.
She shuddered at the things he threatened next. He had told her in explicit detail what he was going to do to Bobby, as frenziedly he stripped down to his underwear. He wore boxer shorts with hearts on, and his erection poked obscenely at the material.
Bobby was screaming, and the very sound of his anguished cries wrenched at her heart. It was her fault Bobby was here.
Her fault.
Santino’s concentration was on the child. He was preparing to commit an act so vile . . . so indecent . . .
* * *
Boogie moved swiftly, silently, down through the cactus, weeds and hillside brush.
Lucky managed to stay close behind him, oblivious to the overhanging bushes and branches that scratched and tore at her face and hands.
They were nearing the back of the house. A large swimming pool spread out before them, and around it were glass doors leading into the house.
‘We’ll bust right through,’ Boogie muttered, drawing his gun. ‘You’ll have the kids back any minute. I promise you Lucky, any minute.’
* * *
‘Mrs Bonnatti?’ Eden questioned, shoving past Zeko and confronting the big woman at the front door.
Donatella peered at her. ‘You gotta my husband here?’ she said loudly. ‘My Santino?’
‘Yes. He’s here,’ replied Eden. ‘But before you see him I think you and I should talk.’
‘He sleepa with you?’ Donatella demanded. ‘You tell me truth.’
The Guardian seized the opportunity to push past Donatella into the house.
‘Wait a min—’ began a confused Zeko. But Caveman, close behind The Guardian, pulled a gun and said, ‘Save your words, shithead. Where are the kids?’
‘Whosa these people?’ shouted Donatella. ‘Whatsa happening?’
‘Just get against the wall and shut up,’ Caveman commanded. He gestured to Eden. ‘You too, sweetheart.’
Blackie came lumbering out of the kitchen. Caveman waved him to join the crowd. Blackie tried to duck back, but Caveman said, ‘One more move and you’re dead, fucker.’ Blackie froze.
An almighty crash came from the back of the house. And then a gunshot.
One.
Two.
Three.
*
The air in the courtroom was heavy with silence.
Lucky stared into the distance, her black opal eyes mirroring no emotion, although inside she was churning with unbridled anxiety and tension.