Chapter One: "I don't care if you can't do anything else. I don't care ifyou lose your income, your home, your possessions. Fuck all of it, baby. Justgather up your self-respect and walk right out. To be a prostitute is to benothing, a mere tool of man. Take no notice of your pimps, your bosses. We will help you. We will give you all the help we can. We willget you so together that your old life will seem like a bad dream." Margaret Lawrence Brown had been speaking for fifteen minutes, and she pausedto sip from a glass of water handed to her on the makeshift podium. The crowd gathered to hear her talk was gratifyingly large. They occupied a vast area of Central Park, mostly women, a few men scattered among them. It was a warm August day in 1974, and her followers had turned outin force. Margaret's tone was strong and outright. Her voice didn't falter. Her messagecame across loud and clear. She was a tall woman in her early thirties. No makeup decorated her strong,radiant face. Her hair was long and black, and she wore denims, boots, and lovebeads. Margaret Lawrence Brown was a cult figure in America. A ceaseless campaignerfor women's rights, she had won many a victory. She had written three books,appeared on television regularly, and made a great deal of money, all of whichshe used for her organization, F.W.N. -- Free Women Now. Everyone had laughed when she'd first taken up the cause of the prostitutes.But they weren't laughing now, not after three months, not after thousands ofwomen appeared to be giving up their chosen profession and following her. "You've got to get it together now!" Margaret yelled, a determinedthrust to her chin. "Yeah!" the women yelled back. "You're going to live again. You're going to come alive!" "Yeah! Yeah!" The reaction from the crowd was gospel in its intensity. "You're going to be free!" she promised them. "Yeah!" Margaret slumped to the ground while the crowd continued to stamp and shout itsapproval. Blood spurted from a small, neat hole in the middle of herforehead. It was minutes before the crowd realized what had happened, before hysteria andpanic set in. Margaret Lawrence Brown had been shot. The house in Miami could only be approached by passing through electric gates,and then undergoing the scrutiny of two uniformed guards with pistols stuckcasually in their belts. Alio Marcusi passed this scrutiny easily. He was a fat old man, with liquidbooze-filled eyes and the walk of a pregnant cat. As he approached the big house he began humming softly to himself,uncomfortable in his too-tight gray-check suit, sweating from the heat of acloudless day. A maid answered his ring at the door. A surly, big-limbed Italian girl, shespoke little English, but she nodded at Alio and told him that PadroneBassalino was out by the pool. He patted her on the ass, making his way through the house to the patio thatled out to a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Mary Ann August greeted him. Mary Ann was an exceptionally pretty young woman,with old-fashioned, teased blond hair, and a curvaceous body exhibited in askimpy polka-dot bikini. "Hi, there, Alio," she said with a giggle, rising from her lounge. "I was justgonna make myself a little drinkie. Want one?" Posing provocatively in front ofhim, she toyed with a gold chain hanging between her generous breasts. Alio contemplated the young vision, licking his lips in anticipation of theday-not far off, surely-when Enzio would grow tired of Mary Ann and pass heron, like all the others. "Yeah, I'll have a Bacardi, plenty of ice. And some potato chips, mixed nuts,an' a few black olives." He rubbed his extended stomach sorrowfully. "I had notime for lunch. Such a busy day. Where's Enzio?" Mary Ann gestured out toward the never-ending gardens. "He's around somewhere-- pruning his roses, I think," she said sweetly. "Ah, yes, his roses." Instinctively Alio glanced back at the house, andsure enough, there she was, Rose Bassalino herself, peering out through anarrow chink in her curtains. Rose, Enzio's wife. She hadn't left her room for years, and the only people shewould talk to were her three sons. Rose kept an endless vigil at her windowjust waiting and watching. It gave Alio the creeps. He didn't know how Enziostood it. Mary Ann swayed over to the bar and began preparing drinks. She was nineteenyears old and had lived with Enzio Bassalino for almost six months -- somethingof a record, for Enzio never kept them around long. Settling into a chair, Alio slowly closed his eyes. Such a very busy day... "Hey, ciao, Alio, my friend, my boy. How you feeling?" Alio awoke with a start and guiltily jumped up. Enzio loomed over him. Sixty-nine years old, but with the hard, bronzed body ofa man half his age, all his own teeth, a craggy, lined face, topped by a massof thick steel-gray hair. "I feel good, Enzio, I feel fine," Allo said quickly. They clasped hands,patted each other on the back. They were cousins; Alio owed everything he hadto Enzio. "Can I fix you a drinkie, sweetie-pie?" Mary Ann asked, gazing at Enzioadoringly. "No." He dismissed her with a look. "Go in the house. I'll ring if I needyou." Mary Ann didn't argue; she obeyed him at once. Perhaps that was why she hadlasted longer than the others. As soon as she was gone Enzio turned to his cousin. "Well?" he askedimpatiently. "It is done," Alio replied in a low voice. "I saw it myself. A masterful job.One of Tony's boys. He vanished before anyone knew what happened. I flewstraight here." Enzio nodded thoughtfully. "There is no greater satisfaction than a perfecthit. This Tony's boy, pay him an extra thousand an' watch him. A man like thatcould get himself promoted. A public execution is never easy." "No, it's not," Alio agreed, sucking on a black olive. "She must be thirty," the woman hissed spitefully. "Or older," her friend agreed. Lined, and overly made up, the two middle-aged women watched Lara Crichtonclimb out of the Mabbella Club pool. Lara was a perfectly beautiful woman of twenty-six. Slim, suntanned, withrounded, sensual breasts, a mane of sun-streaked hair, and wide, crystal-cleargreen eyes. She dropped down on the mat next to Prince Alfredo Masserini and sighed loudly."I'm getting bored with this place," she said restlessly. "Can't we gosomewhere else?" Prince AIfredo sat up. "Why are you bored?" he demanded. "Am I boringyou? Why should you be bored when you are with me?" Lara sighed again. Yes, the truth of the matter was the prince could be veryboring indeed. But who else was there? She'd made it a rule never to let go of anyone untilthere was someone else firmly ensconced in his place. She had been through mostof the available princes and counts, a few movie stars, and a lord or two.It really was tiresome she had set herself such high standards. "I don't understand you," Prince Alfredo complained. "No woman has ever told meshe was bored with me. I am not a boring man. I am vibrant, lively. I am -- howyou say -- the life and brains of the party." Lara noticed with an even heavier sigh that as he spoke he was getting anerection in his nifty Cerruti shorts. "Oh, God, do shut up," she muttered under her breath. Sex was becoming thebiggest bore of all. So predictable, worked out, and mechanical. Prince Alfredo did not hear her. "Come, my darling." Aware of his erection, andproud, he pulled her to her feet. "First we take a rest." He winked slyly. "Andthen we drive the Ferrari into the mountains. What do you think, my lovely?" "Whatever you say." Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led inside. All eyesfollowed them as they left. They certainly made a beautiful and excitingcouple. They had separate suites, but by unspoken agreement all sexual activity tookplace in Lara's. She stopped him from entering at the door. "What's the matter?" he asked indignantly. "I have a good hard-on -- a very good one." "Save it for later," she said firmly, closing the door on his protests. "I'llcall you when I wake up." Lara felt restless and hemmed in. A feeling she had often felt when married toJamie P. Crichton. A divorce had solved the feeling then, but what now? The phone rang and she picked it up, ready to tell Alfredo no -- definitely no.But it was not the prince. The operator informed her it was an urgent call fromNew York. "Yes?" She cradled the receiver, wondering who knew she was in Spain. "Lara? Lara, is that you? Oh, God! This is such a terrible connection." It wasa woman's voice, her tone bordering on hysterical. "Who is this?" Lara asked sharply. "God! Can't you hear me? Goddamn it -- thisis Cass." A pause, then, "Lara, something terrible has happened. Margaret'sbeen shot. They've shot Margaret." Copyright © 1974, 1989 by Jackie Collins
