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Braddock fidgeted and nervously squeezed his hands together. Big Tim's grand design was not quite dead yet. Not, in fact, by a hell of a shot. Mack Bolan was going to be had.
Julian DiGeorge felt his self-control deserting him. He raised veiled eyes to his chief enforcer, Lou Pena, and muttered, "Listen, dammit, I don't want your damn crying excuses! Do you know how close Palm Village is to where I'm sitting right now? Don't give me any vomiting excuses, Lou."
"I don't know what else to say, Deej," Pena replied humbly. "I don't know how the bastard manages it. I just don't know. We got . . ."
"I know what you got," DiGeorge rasped. "You got an old defenseless farm hand and a decrepit old truck. And you lost three damn good boys. You lost, Lou, you didn't get anything!"
"I was going to say, we got a pretty good idea which way he's travelling now. I got people all up and down that highway and . . ."
"Sure we know which direction he's travelling. He's heading this way, Lou. Probably here already. Of course he is! He's here already."
"Hell, Deej, we got thirty boys out there on the grounds. He ain't gonna get through anything like that."
DiGeorge snorted nervously, lit a cigar, and blew the smoke toward the open window. "Just like he couldn't get out of that beach house, eh?" He slapped the chair with a flat palm, then did it again.
Pena's eyes followed the trail of smoke out the window. He uncomfortably shifted his weight, coughed, then got to his feet and stood uncertainly awaiting his boss' command. Presently he said, "What d'you think I oughta do, Deej?"
"You're outdated, Lou," DiGeorge said, his voice suddenly mild.
"Huh?"
"I think it's about time you retired."
"Aw hell, Deej, I don't want . . ."
"After you bring me Bolan's head."
"I'll get it, Deej,"
"You damn well better. You take five cars, Lou. Full of wild men. And you go over to Palm Village. You shake that place like it never thought of being shook. And you pick up Bolan's tracks. You hear me?"
"I hear you, Deej."
"And don't you come back here without Bolan. You hear me?"
"I hear you, Deej."
"I want Mack Bolan more than I want anything in this world. You understand me, Lou?"
"I understand you, Deej."
"Then get the hell out of here! What are you waiting for?"
Pena got out of there. The boss, he decided, was cracking up. First Bolan was about to walk in the front door, then he was clear over in Palm Village. What the hell did Deej expect of him? It was a senseless question, and Pena recognized it as such even as he thought it. What else? He expected Bolan's head, on a platter, that's what. And Pena, the new chief enforcer, had damn well better get it for him. If he didn't, maybe Pena's own head would end up on that platter. It was not a comforting thing to contemplate. Well, by God, Pena's head wasn't going to get on no platter! Deej said to shake the town apart. He'd shake it down, by God, if that's what it took. Lou Pena had to get Mack Bolan. There just wasn't any two ways about it. He had to, by God, get Mack Bolan!
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Julian DiGeorge felt his self-control deserting him. He raised veiled eyes to his chief enforcer, Lou Pena, and muttered, "Listen, dammit, I don't want your damn crying excuses! Do you know how close Palm Village is to where I'm sitting right now? Don't give me any vomiting excuses, Lou."
"I don't know what else to say, Deej," Pena replied humbly. "I don't know how the bastard manages it. I just don't know. We got . . ."
"I know what you got," DiGeorge rasped. "You got an old defenseless farm hand and a decrepit old truck. And you lost three damn good boys. You lost, Lou, you didn't get anything!"
"I was going to say, we got a pretty good idea which way he's travelling now. I got people all up and down that highway and . . ."
"Sure we know which direction he's travelling. He's heading this way, Lou. Probably here already. Of course he is! He's here already."
"Hell, Deej, we got thirty boys out there on the grounds. He ain't gonna get through anything like that."
DiGeorge snorted nervously, lit a cigar, and blew the smoke toward the open window. "Just like he couldn't get out of that beach house, eh?" He slapped the chair with a flat palm, then did it again.
Pena's eyes followed the trail of smoke out the window. He uncomfortably shifted his weight, coughed, then got to his feet and stood uncertainly awaiting his boss' command. Presently he said, "What d'you think I oughta do, Deej?"
"You're outdated, Lou," DiGeorge said, his voice suddenly mild.
"Huh?"
"I think it's about time you retired."
"Aw hell, Deej, I don't want . . ."
"After you bring me Bolan's head."
"I'll get it, Deej,"
"You damn well better. You take five cars, Lou. Full of wild men. And you go over to Palm Village. You shake that place like it never thought of being shook. And you pick up Bolan's tracks. You hear me?"
"I hear you, Deej."
"And don't you come back here without Bolan. You hear me?"
"I hear you, Deej."
"I want Mack Bolan more than I want anything in this world. You understand me, Lou?"
"I understand you, Deej."
"Then get the hell out of here! What are you waiting for?"
Pena got out of there. The boss, he decided, was cracking up. First Bolan was about to walk in the front door, then he was clear over in Palm Village. What the hell did Deej expect of him? It was a senseless question, and Pena recognized it as such even as he thought it. What else? He expected Bolan's head, on a platter, that's what. And Pena, the new chief enforcer, had damn well better get it for him. If he didn't, maybe Pena's own head would end up on that platter. It was not a comforting thing to contemplate. Well, by God, Pena's head wasn't going to get on no platter! Deej said to shake the town apart. He'd shake it down, by God, if that's what it took. Lou Pena had to get Mack Bolan. There just wasn't any two ways about it. He had to, by God, get Mack Bolan!
Chapter Five
The plastics man
Jim Brantzen was one of a vanishing breed of men. Caring little for material wealth and not at all for personal prestige, his major passions of life revolved about dedicated service to those who needed his talents and to the advancement of his own particular branch of medical science. To Brantzen, though, cosmetic surgery was not just a science. It was also an art, and a highly creative one. The balding, middle-aged surgeon disputed the contention that "beauty is only skin deep." Beauty, he knew, is a totality of the personal image, a totality combining character, spirit, and physical appearance in a package that is pleasing to the beholder. He knew, also, the ravages of character and spirit which could be induced by an unpleasing exterior. His own mother had suffered a hideous disfigurement from an accident when Brantzen was a young boy, and in an age when cosmetic surgery was a bumbling science reserved for the very rich. He had seen a once beautiful and vivacious woman curl up and die inside and later die all over as an embittered and totally withdrawn member of society. Jim Brantzen knew the importance of physical beauty, and he knew how much deeper than skin that importance extended. After all these years, he still awoke sometimes from a cold-sweat dream with the muffled sobbing of his mother-in-seclusion tearing at his heart.
Jim Brantzen had heart, and plenty of it. Enough to volunteer for combat-zone surgical duties in Vietnam. Enough to set up his own makeshift hospital in unpacified territory to administer to the torn and disfigured bodies of Vietnamese children, as well as anyone else who happened along. There was a special place in Brantzen's heart for Mack Bolan, also. On various occasions, the tall and seemingly cold Special Missions sergeant had lugged damaged and bleeding children into Brantzen's small field hospital, often through miles of hostile country, and frequently remaining nearby to defend the small outpost against enemy trackers. Brantzen had recognized in Bolan the same sense of dedication to duty which kept the surgeon at his post. Though Brantzen was unalterably opposed to warfare and violence, he could still respect and admire a dedication in that direction. He had even admired the enemy and their tenacious do-or-die approach to their cause, though disapproving of their tactics and disrespect for human life.
Brantzen knew of Bolan's specialty, of course. He knew that the man had been programmed for murder, that he was a military assassin, and he knew how Bolan had earned that tag, "The Executioner." He could still admire him. Indeed, he had to admire him. He had seen him stand up to almost certain death on too many occasions; at the other end of the stick, he had seen the pain-of-soul in Bolan's eyes as he carried broken children into the field hospital. There was no swagger to the man, no story-book bravado; he was a soldier, doing a soldier's job, and doing it with precision and with courage and with dedication. Yes, Jim Brantzen had a deep and abiding admiration for Sgt. Mack Bolan.
He had known also, of course, of Bolan's homefront adventures since his return from Vietnam. He had followed the stories in the newspapers and had wagged his head sorrowfully over the television reports. Some men, Brantzen had decided, just had too much sense of dedication for their own good. If Vietnam had been an unwinnable war, then Bolan's one-man campaign against the Mafia could only be an impossible one. Hounded from both sides, by both the law and the underworld, there could be but one outcome for Mack Bolan. With one tug of his mind, Brantzen had half expected that Bolan would come to him. Another tug told him that it would not happen, that Bolan would stand up one time too many and die on his feet, without once thinking of the refuge which Brantzen could offer him. The surgeon had made a bet between the two sides of his mind, with the odds even as to whether Bolan would cut and run for a new face or stand and die in his old one.
Brantzen had been neither surprised nor disappointed, then, when the Executioner came calling on him. Their greetings were exchanged with an almost formal and subdued warmth, the handshake firm and prolonged, and with few words passing between.
"I've been haftway expecting you," the surgeon said.
"You know why I'm here," Bolan murmured.
"Right. You want me to make you beautiful."
"You could fall dead in the process."
Brantzen grinned. "It shouldn't be all that tough a job."
"You know what I mean, Jim," Bolan said. "My playmates don't like anyone else cutting into the game."
Brantzen had led him through the deserted lobby and into casual living quarters to the rear, small but adequate for the bachelor doctor. "You worry about the playmates," Brantzen told Bolan. "That face of yours is all the worry I can handle at once. Whom do you want to please with the new one, Mack — the old ladies or the young ones?"
Bolan sighed. "You can cut it that close?"
The surgeon smiled at the pun, picked up a sheaf of sketches from a table, and tossed them into Bolan's lap. "I've been working on these ever since I heard you were in the area," he said. "I can give you any of those. It's your choice."
Bolan was shuffling through the sketches. He stopped at one, smiled, passed on, then checked himself and returned to the one that had produced the smile. He laughed softly and tapped the sketch with an index finger. "Did you do this one from memory, or is it just an accident that turned out this way?"
Brantzen bent to study the sketch. He stroked his chin and said, "By gosh, it does look like . . . like . . ."
"My old sidekick," Bolan said. "And a spitting image. You could really make me look like this?"
The surgeon solemnly nodded his head. "It's not the prettiest of the lot, Mack, but I'll have to agree with your logic. I'd say it's far and away your best choice."
"How soon?" Bolan said, scowling at the sketch.
"If I call right now, my surgical nurse can be here by five," Brantzen replied. "We can be into surgery by six."
Bolan nodded. "The sooner the better," he murmured. "How long, then, before I'm up and around?"
"We can do it with local anaesthesia," Brantzen said. "You'll never have to go to bed, if you'd rather not. And if you're tough enough. I'd like to keep you around for a few days of post-care, though."
Bolan was thinking about it. He said, "I've been among the wounded before, Jim. It'll have to be that way this time. It's no go if I have to lay around here for days afterward. I have to keep moving."
"I suppose you could," Brantzen replied thoughtfully. "If you're tough enough," he added again.
"How long before the scars are healed?"
Brantzen smiled. "The technique I have in mind will leave only tiny slits here and there, Mack. Except, possibly, for the nose, and I'd say that would be the last to heal. It varies with individuals, of course, but I should say you'd be relatively presentable within a few days to a week. There'll be some sensitivity for quite a while beyond that, though. I'll be doing some plastics work, you know. There could even be some minor rejection problems."
Bolan glanced at his watch. "You say we can get started by six? No chance of an earlier start?"
"Are the hounds at your heels, Mack?" the surgeon asked softly.
Bolan grimaced. "Pretty close," he said. "And I can't hang around here for more than a few hours. I'll have to recuperate on my feet."
"There's going to be pain."
"I've lived with pain before."
"Yes, I'm sure you have. Well . . . I could hurry Marge along, I guess, but I'd rather not arouse her suspicions. Come to think of it, this face of yours has been pretty much in the public eye. I guess I'd better have you prepped and ready by the time she checks in. She could never recognize you then."
"We can't just go without her?" Bolan asked quietly.
"Well . . ." The surgeon wavered. "It's a . . ."
"I've seen you go it alone with the Cong howling all around us."
"Those were emergency conditions," Brantzen said fretfully.
"This isn't?" Bolan asked, grinning.
The surgeon stared at Bolan for a thoughtful moment. He smiled suddenly and said, "Okay, Sergeant, let's get the patient prepped for surgery. Come on, man, move, move, move."
Bolan got to his feet and thrust the sketch at Brantzen. "The patient is ready and waiting, Doctor," he said.
Jim Brantzen had heart, and plenty of it. Enough to volunteer for combat-zone surgical duties in Vietnam. Enough to set up his own makeshift hospital in unpacified territory to administer to the torn and disfigured bodies of Vietnamese children, as well as anyone else who happened along. There was a special place in Brantzen's heart for Mack Bolan, also. On various occasions, the tall and seemingly cold Special Missions sergeant had lugged damaged and bleeding children into Brantzen's small field hospital, often through miles of hostile country, and frequently remaining nearby to defend the small outpost against enemy trackers. Brantzen had recognized in Bolan the same sense of dedication to duty which kept the surgeon at his post. Though Brantzen was unalterably opposed to warfare and violence, he could still respect and admire a dedication in that direction. He had even admired the enemy and their tenacious do-or-die approach to their cause, though disapproving of their tactics and disrespect for human life.
Brantzen knew of Bolan's specialty, of course. He knew that the man had been programmed for murder, that he was a military assassin, and he knew how Bolan had earned that tag, "The Executioner." He could still admire him. Indeed, he had to admire him. He had seen him stand up to almost certain death on too many occasions; at the other end of the stick, he had seen the pain-of-soul in Bolan's eyes as he carried broken children into the field hospital. There was no swagger to the man, no story-book bravado; he was a soldier, doing a soldier's job, and doing it with precision and with courage and with dedication. Yes, Jim Brantzen had a deep and abiding admiration for Sgt. Mack Bolan.
He had known also, of course, of Bolan's homefront adventures since his return from Vietnam. He had followed the stories in the newspapers and had wagged his head sorrowfully over the television reports. Some men, Brantzen had decided, just had too much sense of dedication for their own good. If Vietnam had been an unwinnable war, then Bolan's one-man campaign against the Mafia could only be an impossible one. Hounded from both sides, by both the law and the underworld, there could be but one outcome for Mack Bolan. With one tug of his mind, Brantzen had half expected that Bolan would come to him. Another tug told him that it would not happen, that Bolan would stand up one time too many and die on his feet, without once thinking of the refuge which Brantzen could offer him. The surgeon had made a bet between the two sides of his mind, with the odds even as to whether Bolan would cut and run for a new face or stand and die in his old one.
Brantzen had been neither surprised nor disappointed, then, when the Executioner came calling on him. Their greetings were exchanged with an almost formal and subdued warmth, the handshake firm and prolonged, and with few words passing between.
"I've been haftway expecting you," the surgeon said.
"You know why I'm here," Bolan murmured.
"Right. You want me to make you beautiful."
"You could fall dead in the process."
Brantzen grinned. "It shouldn't be all that tough a job."
"You know what I mean, Jim," Bolan said. "My playmates don't like anyone else cutting into the game."
Brantzen had led him through the deserted lobby and into casual living quarters to the rear, small but adequate for the bachelor doctor. "You worry about the playmates," Brantzen told Bolan. "That face of yours is all the worry I can handle at once. Whom do you want to please with the new one, Mack — the old ladies or the young ones?"
Bolan sighed. "You can cut it that close?"
The surgeon smiled at the pun, picked up a sheaf of sketches from a table, and tossed them into Bolan's lap. "I've been working on these ever since I heard you were in the area," he said. "I can give you any of those. It's your choice."
Bolan was shuffling through the sketches. He stopped at one, smiled, passed on, then checked himself and returned to the one that had produced the smile. He laughed softly and tapped the sketch with an index finger. "Did you do this one from memory, or is it just an accident that turned out this way?"
Brantzen bent to study the sketch. He stroked his chin and said, "By gosh, it does look like . . . like . . ."
"My old sidekick," Bolan said. "And a spitting image. You could really make me look like this?"
The surgeon solemnly nodded his head. "It's not the prettiest of the lot, Mack, but I'll have to agree with your logic. I'd say it's far and away your best choice."
"How soon?" Bolan said, scowling at the sketch.
"If I call right now, my surgical nurse can be here by five," Brantzen replied. "We can be into surgery by six."
Bolan nodded. "The sooner the better," he murmured. "How long, then, before I'm up and around?"
"We can do it with local anaesthesia," Brantzen said. "You'll never have to go to bed, if you'd rather not. And if you're tough enough. I'd like to keep you around for a few days of post-care, though."
Bolan was thinking about it. He said, "I've been among the wounded before, Jim. It'll have to be that way this time. It's no go if I have to lay around here for days afterward. I have to keep moving."
"I suppose you could," Brantzen replied thoughtfully. "If you're tough enough," he added again.
"How long before the scars are healed?"
Brantzen smiled. "The technique I have in mind will leave only tiny slits here and there, Mack. Except, possibly, for the nose, and I'd say that would be the last to heal. It varies with individuals, of course, but I should say you'd be relatively presentable within a few days to a week. There'll be some sensitivity for quite a while beyond that, though. I'll be doing some plastics work, you know. There could even be some minor rejection problems."
Bolan glanced at his watch. "You say we can get started by six? No chance of an earlier start?"
"Are the hounds at your heels, Mack?" the surgeon asked softly.
Bolan grimaced. "Pretty close," he said. "And I can't hang around here for more than a few hours. I'll have to recuperate on my feet."
"There's going to be pain."
"I've lived with pain before."
"Yes, I'm sure you have. Well . . . I could hurry Marge along, I guess, but I'd rather not arouse her suspicions. Come to think of it, this face of yours has been pretty much in the public eye. I guess I'd better have you prepped and ready by the time she checks in. She could never recognize you then."
"We can't just go without her?" Bolan asked quietly.
"Well . . ." The surgeon wavered. "It's a . . ."
"I've seen you go it alone with the Cong howling all around us."
"Those were emergency conditions," Brantzen said fretfully.
"This isn't?" Bolan asked, grinning.
The surgeon stared at Bolan for a thoughtful moment. He smiled suddenly and said, "Okay, Sergeant, let's get the patient prepped for surgery. Come on, man, move, move, move."
Bolan got to his feet and thrust the sketch at Brantzen. "The patient is ready and waiting, Doctor," he said.
Chapter Six
The balance
Once a jumping-off spot for hopeful prospectors heading into the Death Valley area, Palm Village had until recently evolved uneventfully into a typical desert-edge trade center serving a sparse agricultural area. Removed from major highway routes and largely untouched by 20th-century progress during the first half of the century, the quiet village had found new life in the desert-land boom of the fifties and sixties. An invasion by promoters and developers had threatened to convert the tranquil community into a second Palm Springs until conservative city fathers invoked legislative powers to cool the pace of progress. As a result, Palm Village was moving calmly along the path of controlled development, retaining much of its original charm while swelling gently into a quiet residential community of retired folk and health-seekers.
The original village square, referred to as "Lodetown," had stoutly resisted all civilizing inroads of the 20th century. It was composed mainly of oldtime saloons and beerhalls which were frequented by farmhands and cowboys from the surrounding area, and was the chief source of Palm Village's crime statistics, most of the trouble developing on Saturday nights and limited to "drunk and disorderlies" and an occasional fistfight. Lodetown boasted a quite stable population of prostitutes, each of them well known by local authorities. All were arrested each Sunday morning, fined $21.20, and released. This was an effective arrangement, considered entirely fair by the girls involved, satisfactory to the demands of law and order, and consistent with the city fathers' concept of "logic and reason." Besides, the weekly fines easily covered the entire expense of policing Lodetown.
Robert (Genghis) Conn was still lean and hard at the age of 52. A tall man with a deeply lined, weathered face, he looked like a Gary Cooper version of the Western marshal. Actually, Conn was chief of the city's small police force and had been a law-enforcement officer since the end of World War II. He had attended the police academy at Los Angeles and had served briefly with the L.A. police, then as an Orange County deputy until recalled to military duty for the Korean conflict. He returned from Korea directly into the chief's job at Palm Village, replacing the one-man agency of Town Marshal in one of the initial acts of civic progress.
It had not been a progressive move for Conn himself, however, and none was more aware of this than Conn. The Palm Village job represented a retreat of the once-ambitious lawman, the desert town offering him the peace and tranquility which had suddenly become so important to him. Conn had seen enough blood and violence to last him a lifetime; he wanted no more of it. For almost twenty years now, he had managed to avoid the violent life. He and his wife Dolly had a modest home with no mortgages in the older section of town, and here they planned to live forever. In peace and tranquility.
On that hot desert morning of October 5th, however, "Genghis" Conn realized that his sabbatical had ended. The pace of progress had caught up to Palm Village; violent death had found its way to his peaceful city. Three dead hoods lay in the coroner's vault at the local funeral home, a hapless old farmhand was barely hanging onto life at Memorial Hospital, and now this big-deal L.A. cop was telling him that his quiet little town was harboring, for God's sake, the Executioner.
"Is it always this hot here?" Captain Tim Braddock complained. He passed a hand across his forehead and squinted into the cloudless sky. "How the hell do you stand it?"
"It's only a hundred and two," Conn replied, lying a little. "This is the cool o' the morning. Wait 'til this afternoon." He pushed open the door to the small building which served as a combination city hail, jail, and police station, and waved his two visitors inside.
Braddock nudged Carl Lyons in ahead; the three lawmen stepped into air-conditioned comfort and moved along a narrow hallway past a door marked CITY CLERK and through a swinging door at the rear. The air conditioning ended here, in Conn's office. Desert coolers filled the window openings. A door of opaque glass and imbedded wire mesh, just beyond an I-formation of desks, opened onto the cell block.
"This the jail?" Lyons asked.
"That's it," Conn replied, jerking a thumb toward the dreary hole beyond the door. "Rarely has any guests . . . 'cept on Saturday nights, and then, God, you can't stand the smell of the place. I pour a gallon of pine oil on that floor every Monday morning and just let it set all day."
His visitors had seated themselves; Lyons on a tattered leather couch at the wall, Braddock perching on the edge of a desk. Conn eased into a chair at the center desk, pushed his hat back off his forehead, and said, "What makes you think I got the Executioner in my town, Captain?"
Braddock replied, "Call it a hunch. How many officers on your force, Chief?"
"Twelve," Conn said, his voice a bored monotone. "Besides myself. Run three rotating watch sections, with a light nightwatch." He smiled tiredly. "Everybody works on Saturday night, all night long. We only have two cars, only one of them is fit to be on the highway. Every once in a while, we double up the watches and give ourselves a decent stretch at home." He grunted and reached for a cigar. "You interested in knowing how much I pay my patrolmen?" Receiving no response other than an embarrassed drop of eyes, he went on: "Myself, I put in a 20-hour day, every day, 'cept once in a while I run Dolly and me into L.A. for a night to ourselves. We get gigglin, drunk, see all the floorshows, and have ourselves a ball with the swingers." The Chief stared at his cigar during a thoughtful pause, then added, "So you think Mack Bolan's responsible for the carrion over at the coroner's."
Braddock shifted his weight uncomfortably and said, "We put out a full poop sheet on Bolan more than a week ago. We were hoping to get the full cooperation from the outlying communities. If you'd just sounded a Hardcase alert last night when the shooting occurred, Genghis, we'd be some valuable hours closer to Bolan right now."
Conn ignored the lightly scolding tone of Braddock's message. "Last night happened to be one of my nights in L.A.," he explained. "As for this Hardcase alert, my night watch just didn't see the thing that way." He bit the end off the cigar, then laid it down and chewed on the plug in his mouth. "Besides we don't have clear jurisdiction. Happened outside of town, you know. 'Bout two miles outside."
Braddock tossed a hopeless glance at his young sergeant, sighed, and said, "Let me bring a squad in here, Genghis."
Following a short silence, Conn replied, "Okay. On provisions."
"What provisions?"
"You don't bust my town. Meaning, you don't disturb the balance we got here. Law enforcement in this town is strictly my business. You want Bolan . . . okay, you come in and get him, if you can. But you don't bust my town in the process, and you don't bother any of our citizens."
"Of course," the Captain grunted. "That goes without saying."
"And you march every one of your men in here and let my people get a good look at 'em"
Braddock nodded assent.
"No marked cars, and no uniforms, and you work it quiet . . . damn quiet."
Braddock sighed and glanced at Lyons. "I just hope we can," he said.
Conn spat the plug of cigar into his hand and raised inquiring eyes to the Los Angeles cop. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that wherever we find Bolan, we're likely to find a covey of Mafia triggermen right close by."
"I want no shooting in my streets, Braddock," Conn said coldly.
"Neither do we," Braddock replied. He arose with a sigh and moved toward the telephone. "Can I use this phone?"
"Reverse 'em."
"Huh?"
"The charges. L.A. is a 45-cent call."
Sgt. Lyons grinned and reached for a cigarette, watching the color flow into his Captain's face. He winked at Chief Conn and lit the cigarette as Braddock's index finger was stabbing into the telephone dial.
"You don't say much, do you?" Conn observed.
The Sergeant exhaled the cigarette smoke, smiled, and said, "No sir." He drew a finger across his throat, rolled his eyes toward the Captain, and sent Conn another wink.
The Chief soberly returned the wink and bit another plug from his cigar. He liked the youngster okay, but that Braddock . . . well now, there was something else. Conn did not give a damn about the 45-cent toll call. The youngster realized that, and apparently Big Tim knew it also, judging by the color of his face. But Big Tim also knew that he wasn't going to just walk in and take over Genghis Conn's town. That was the important thing.
Another important thing was occupying Genghis Conn's mind also. If the Executioner was in town, there was only one reason why he would be here . . . and only one place he was likely to be interested in. This was something the big shot L.A. cop did not know. But Genghis Conn knew. And Genghis rather liked the peaceful balance which had been achieved in his town. He had already decided to keep it that way.
The original village square, referred to as "Lodetown," had stoutly resisted all civilizing inroads of the 20th century. It was composed mainly of oldtime saloons and beerhalls which were frequented by farmhands and cowboys from the surrounding area, and was the chief source of Palm Village's crime statistics, most of the trouble developing on Saturday nights and limited to "drunk and disorderlies" and an occasional fistfight. Lodetown boasted a quite stable population of prostitutes, each of them well known by local authorities. All were arrested each Sunday morning, fined $21.20, and released. This was an effective arrangement, considered entirely fair by the girls involved, satisfactory to the demands of law and order, and consistent with the city fathers' concept of "logic and reason." Besides, the weekly fines easily covered the entire expense of policing Lodetown.
Robert (Genghis) Conn was still lean and hard at the age of 52. A tall man with a deeply lined, weathered face, he looked like a Gary Cooper version of the Western marshal. Actually, Conn was chief of the city's small police force and had been a law-enforcement officer since the end of World War II. He had attended the police academy at Los Angeles and had served briefly with the L.A. police, then as an Orange County deputy until recalled to military duty for the Korean conflict. He returned from Korea directly into the chief's job at Palm Village, replacing the one-man agency of Town Marshal in one of the initial acts of civic progress.
It had not been a progressive move for Conn himself, however, and none was more aware of this than Conn. The Palm Village job represented a retreat of the once-ambitious lawman, the desert town offering him the peace and tranquility which had suddenly become so important to him. Conn had seen enough blood and violence to last him a lifetime; he wanted no more of it. For almost twenty years now, he had managed to avoid the violent life. He and his wife Dolly had a modest home with no mortgages in the older section of town, and here they planned to live forever. In peace and tranquility.
On that hot desert morning of October 5th, however, "Genghis" Conn realized that his sabbatical had ended. The pace of progress had caught up to Palm Village; violent death had found its way to his peaceful city. Three dead hoods lay in the coroner's vault at the local funeral home, a hapless old farmhand was barely hanging onto life at Memorial Hospital, and now this big-deal L.A. cop was telling him that his quiet little town was harboring, for God's sake, the Executioner.
"Is it always this hot here?" Captain Tim Braddock complained. He passed a hand across his forehead and squinted into the cloudless sky. "How the hell do you stand it?"
"It's only a hundred and two," Conn replied, lying a little. "This is the cool o' the morning. Wait 'til this afternoon." He pushed open the door to the small building which served as a combination city hail, jail, and police station, and waved his two visitors inside.
Braddock nudged Carl Lyons in ahead; the three lawmen stepped into air-conditioned comfort and moved along a narrow hallway past a door marked CITY CLERK and through a swinging door at the rear. The air conditioning ended here, in Conn's office. Desert coolers filled the window openings. A door of opaque glass and imbedded wire mesh, just beyond an I-formation of desks, opened onto the cell block.
"This the jail?" Lyons asked.
"That's it," Conn replied, jerking a thumb toward the dreary hole beyond the door. "Rarely has any guests . . . 'cept on Saturday nights, and then, God, you can't stand the smell of the place. I pour a gallon of pine oil on that floor every Monday morning and just let it set all day."
His visitors had seated themselves; Lyons on a tattered leather couch at the wall, Braddock perching on the edge of a desk. Conn eased into a chair at the center desk, pushed his hat back off his forehead, and said, "What makes you think I got the Executioner in my town, Captain?"
Braddock replied, "Call it a hunch. How many officers on your force, Chief?"
"Twelve," Conn said, his voice a bored monotone. "Besides myself. Run three rotating watch sections, with a light nightwatch." He smiled tiredly. "Everybody works on Saturday night, all night long. We only have two cars, only one of them is fit to be on the highway. Every once in a while, we double up the watches and give ourselves a decent stretch at home." He grunted and reached for a cigar. "You interested in knowing how much I pay my patrolmen?" Receiving no response other than an embarrassed drop of eyes, he went on: "Myself, I put in a 20-hour day, every day, 'cept once in a while I run Dolly and me into L.A. for a night to ourselves. We get gigglin, drunk, see all the floorshows, and have ourselves a ball with the swingers." The Chief stared at his cigar during a thoughtful pause, then added, "So you think Mack Bolan's responsible for the carrion over at the coroner's."
Braddock shifted his weight uncomfortably and said, "We put out a full poop sheet on Bolan more than a week ago. We were hoping to get the full cooperation from the outlying communities. If you'd just sounded a Hardcase alert last night when the shooting occurred, Genghis, we'd be some valuable hours closer to Bolan right now."
Conn ignored the lightly scolding tone of Braddock's message. "Last night happened to be one of my nights in L.A.," he explained. "As for this Hardcase alert, my night watch just didn't see the thing that way." He bit the end off the cigar, then laid it down and chewed on the plug in his mouth. "Besides we don't have clear jurisdiction. Happened outside of town, you know. 'Bout two miles outside."
Braddock tossed a hopeless glance at his young sergeant, sighed, and said, "Let me bring a squad in here, Genghis."
Following a short silence, Conn replied, "Okay. On provisions."
"What provisions?"
"You don't bust my town. Meaning, you don't disturb the balance we got here. Law enforcement in this town is strictly my business. You want Bolan . . . okay, you come in and get him, if you can. But you don't bust my town in the process, and you don't bother any of our citizens."
"Of course," the Captain grunted. "That goes without saying."
"And you march every one of your men in here and let my people get a good look at 'em"
Braddock nodded assent.
"No marked cars, and no uniforms, and you work it quiet . . . damn quiet."
Braddock sighed and glanced at Lyons. "I just hope we can," he said.
Conn spat the plug of cigar into his hand and raised inquiring eyes to the Los Angeles cop. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that wherever we find Bolan, we're likely to find a covey of Mafia triggermen right close by."
"I want no shooting in my streets, Braddock," Conn said coldly.
"Neither do we," Braddock replied. He arose with a sigh and moved toward the telephone. "Can I use this phone?"
"Reverse 'em."
"Huh?"
"The charges. L.A. is a 45-cent call."
Sgt. Lyons grinned and reached for a cigarette, watching the color flow into his Captain's face. He winked at Chief Conn and lit the cigarette as Braddock's index finger was stabbing into the telephone dial.
"You don't say much, do you?" Conn observed.
The Sergeant exhaled the cigarette smoke, smiled, and said, "No sir." He drew a finger across his throat, rolled his eyes toward the Captain, and sent Conn another wink.
The Chief soberly returned the wink and bit another plug from his cigar. He liked the youngster okay, but that Braddock . . . well now, there was something else. Conn did not give a damn about the 45-cent toll call. The youngster realized that, and apparently Big Tim knew it also, judging by the color of his face. But Big Tim also knew that he wasn't going to just walk in and take over Genghis Conn's town. That was the important thing.
Another important thing was occupying Genghis Conn's mind also. If the Executioner was in town, there was only one reason why he would be here . . . and only one place he was likely to be interested in. This was something the big shot L.A. cop did not know. But Genghis Conn knew. And Genghis rather liked the peaceful balance which had been achieved in his town. He had already decided to keep it that way.
Chapter Seven
Lou's crew
The Cosa Nostra was the only "family" Lou (Screwy Looey) Pena had ever known. Born in the forbidding slums of East Harlem in the early twenties to a tubercular and dying mother and an imprisoned father, he had been left to more or less shift for himself at a tender age and had grown up as an unofficial ward of the neighborhood. As his mother lingered and his father languished, young Looey ate wherever he could find a place at a table and slept in any crowded bed which would admit him, the tenacious youngster learning early to "live off the streets" and to accept graciously any crumbs tossed his way. It had been a mixed neighborhood of Italians, Jews, and Irish, in which ethnic feuds and rivalries erupted with monotonous frequency. For his first eight years of life, little Looey did not recognize ethnic differences; his hungry belly was receptive to bagels and raviolis alike; a bowl of Irish stew had been his idea of a feast. Pena's life took a dramatic new direction in his eighth year, however, when his dead mama's niece arrived from the old country and took the youngster under her wing. From Cugina Maria, then but 22 years of age herself, Pena found an identification of ancestry and learned to be proud of his Neapolitan roots; he also began attending school, at first reluctantly and then feverishly as his young consciousness responded to the challenges of knowledge. During his sixth year of schooling, Maria "moved in with" a member of a neighborhood gang known as "The 108th Street Raiders." She took Looey with her into the new environment; unknown to Maria, Pena immediately quit school (he was then 14) and became a part-time member of the Raiders, working under the tutelage of Johnny "Third Leg" Saccitone, Maria's lover. It was at about this time that the infamous gang wars and underworld intrigues were reaching the climax which would see the firm establishment of the Cosa Nostra families.
Pena served six months in a reformatory at the age of 14, another four months at the age of 15. During this latter stretch, he killed a fellow inmate in a knife fight on the athletic field. He beat this rap by successfully feigning insanity and was transferred to the State Hospital, from where he was discharged at the age of 16. Now wise to the ways of his world, he successfully evaded the reach of the law thereafter and was formally initiated into a Cosa Nostra family somewhere around his 21st year. He was never again arrested or hospitalized throughout a long career as a Mafia "soldier," serving mostly as an "enforcer" and bodyguard to various Capos, or family bosses. He had participated in more than a score of murder contracts and had come west with DiGeorge when the latter ascended to the rank of Caporegime, or lieutenant, in the early days of the Los Angeles Family. The nickname "Screwy Looey" had stuck with him through the years, but was rarely used to his face. Pena had long been a power in the Western Family, though without official rank until Mack Bolan's execution of DiGeorge's chief enforcer in the Beverly Hills fracas.
Married only to his job and faultlessly loyal to his Capo, Pena had received the nod from DiGeorge to fill the sudden vacancy. Even Pena, however, realized that this promotion had been largely based on a scarcity of qualified candidates. It was generally acknowledged that whatever Pena lacked in brains was more than made up for by his brute strength, stubborn tenacity, and unflagging loyalty to his Capo. No one doubted that Screwy Looey would succeed in his new post. More than he himself wanted to succeed, however, he wanted to please Julian DiGeorge. This desire overrode all other considerations. He had vowed to serve up Mack Bolan's head "on a platter" for his Capo's extreme pleasure.
Pena arrived in Palm Village on the morning of October 5th in the lead vehicle of a five-car caravan which proceeded directly to the public parking lot at the edge of Lodetown. There they were met by Willie Walker (nee Joseph Gianami), an advance man who had already obtained city permits for "door-to-door selling," and who, moments earlier, had rented an empty store building on the Lodetown square, ostensibly for use as a book crew headquarters.
Willie Walker led the caravan to the alleyway rear entrance to the store and chatted with a uniformed policeman as Pena's soldiers unloaded heavy cartons of "books" from the trunks of the vehicles.
Moments later, with Pena's 25-man crew sprawled about in the comparative coolness of the rented store, Walker reported his conversation with the policeman. "He said it was okay to park in the alley, but we can't block it."
Pena nodded and said, "I'd rather just stay in the cars. At least they're air conditioned. It's hot enough in here to cook us alive."
"The building went with the permits," Walker replied, grinning. "Not much, is it? They got a law here that you gotta be an established firm in this town to do business here. It cost me five a head for the permits, fifty for a week's rent on the store, minimum, and fifty for what they call an associate membership in the Merchant's Association." The grin widened. "And they call us racketeers."
"Everybody has to make a living, Willie," Pena growled, dismissing the implied graft. "Well . . . hand out those permits and get the kids busy unpacking those boxes. There's hardware and extra ammo under the books."
"Okay."
"Get the books stacked around, make it 1ook good. Put a couple of empty boxes up by the window and let the label show, in case anybody wants to look in and see what we got here." Pena wiped a trickle of perspiration from each temple and added: "Make it quick and get the kids back into those cars. Christ, we'll dehydrate in this dump." He held out a hand. "Gimme some of those business cards, I'm gonna pass some around to our next-door neighbors. Community relations, you know, and it'll give me a chance to look around." He winked, pocketed the cards, and walked toward the front of the building, dragging Walker with him. "Listen, I want one of those big choppers on the floor in each car. And put some books in the back windows, and I want every man with a book in his hand. This has gotta look good. And listen . . . I don't want those cars parked in a alley when we're all mobbed up in here. One car in the alley, in case we need it quick . . . the others you spot around close. Just make sure they're where we can get to them, and that we're not gonna get blocked off or locked in."
Walker nodded his understanding of the instructions, closed the door behind Pena's departure, and immediately began carrying out the orders. Upon Pena's return some minutes later, the store looked precisely as it was meant to look — like a hurriedly set up center of operations for a crew of itinerant book salesmen. A city map which Walker had purchased for $1.25 from the City Clerk's office was tacked to a wall, on which was being marked the assignment for each squad.
"How long's it gonna take us to cover this hick burg?" Pena inquired.
Willie Walker stared reflectively at the large map. "I'd say we can tap every house in about three to four hours, if we move fast. Five or six if want it real careful."
"I want it fast," Pena replied, "I just spotted something real interesting over in that parking lot."
"Yeah?" Walker said, his eyes shifting quickly from the map to his boss' face.
"Yeah." Pena was frowning in thoughtful concentration. "Julio's car. Bolan must have dumped it there. I walked past quick and casual. Keys are in it. Blood spots on the seat."
"What's on your mind, Lou?"
"I'm just wondering if the bulls have that car staked out. I saw something else interesting, Willie. Two L.A. cops just walked into the police station."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You sure you sold the hicks on our cover?"
"I'm pretty sure."
"You gotta do better than pretty sure, Willie."
"Okay, I'm sure. They're sold, Lou. All the guy was worried about was getting his fifty for this shack."
Pena rubbed his nose, glared at the city map, then sighed and said, "Let's get moving. I want Johnny Spiffy to stay with Julio's car, though. But tell 'im to not fall for no cops' tricks. Make sure he has a picture of this Bolan. Make sure everybody has one. And Willie . . ."
"Yeah, Lou?"
"Make sure everybody understands one thing. We're here to hit this guy Bolan. I don't want no sloppy fingers. Any soldier tells me he saw Bolan, and then can't tell me he saw him dead . . . well, he just better not come back at all, Willie. You know?"
"I know, Lou. Don't worry. We got the best crew in the country. We'll get this Blacksuit Bolan."
"We better, Willie. Mr. DiGeorge says we better."
"What if the cops get to him first, Lou?"
"Then there'll be some dead cops, too. We ain't backing down to no cops on this hit, Willie. You know?"
The rented store suddenly seemed much cooler to Willie Walker. The veteran Mafia triggerman solemnly nodded his head and replied, "I know, Lou."
Pena served six months in a reformatory at the age of 14, another four months at the age of 15. During this latter stretch, he killed a fellow inmate in a knife fight on the athletic field. He beat this rap by successfully feigning insanity and was transferred to the State Hospital, from where he was discharged at the age of 16. Now wise to the ways of his world, he successfully evaded the reach of the law thereafter and was formally initiated into a Cosa Nostra family somewhere around his 21st year. He was never again arrested or hospitalized throughout a long career as a Mafia "soldier," serving mostly as an "enforcer" and bodyguard to various Capos, or family bosses. He had participated in more than a score of murder contracts and had come west with DiGeorge when the latter ascended to the rank of Caporegime, or lieutenant, in the early days of the Los Angeles Family. The nickname "Screwy Looey" had stuck with him through the years, but was rarely used to his face. Pena had long been a power in the Western Family, though without official rank until Mack Bolan's execution of DiGeorge's chief enforcer in the Beverly Hills fracas.
Married only to his job and faultlessly loyal to his Capo, Pena had received the nod from DiGeorge to fill the sudden vacancy. Even Pena, however, realized that this promotion had been largely based on a scarcity of qualified candidates. It was generally acknowledged that whatever Pena lacked in brains was more than made up for by his brute strength, stubborn tenacity, and unflagging loyalty to his Capo. No one doubted that Screwy Looey would succeed in his new post. More than he himself wanted to succeed, however, he wanted to please Julian DiGeorge. This desire overrode all other considerations. He had vowed to serve up Mack Bolan's head "on a platter" for his Capo's extreme pleasure.
Pena arrived in Palm Village on the morning of October 5th in the lead vehicle of a five-car caravan which proceeded directly to the public parking lot at the edge of Lodetown. There they were met by Willie Walker (nee Joseph Gianami), an advance man who had already obtained city permits for "door-to-door selling," and who, moments earlier, had rented an empty store building on the Lodetown square, ostensibly for use as a book crew headquarters.
Willie Walker led the caravan to the alleyway rear entrance to the store and chatted with a uniformed policeman as Pena's soldiers unloaded heavy cartons of "books" from the trunks of the vehicles.
Moments later, with Pena's 25-man crew sprawled about in the comparative coolness of the rented store, Walker reported his conversation with the policeman. "He said it was okay to park in the alley, but we can't block it."
Pena nodded and said, "I'd rather just stay in the cars. At least they're air conditioned. It's hot enough in here to cook us alive."
"The building went with the permits," Walker replied, grinning. "Not much, is it? They got a law here that you gotta be an established firm in this town to do business here. It cost me five a head for the permits, fifty for a week's rent on the store, minimum, and fifty for what they call an associate membership in the Merchant's Association." The grin widened. "And they call us racketeers."
"Everybody has to make a living, Willie," Pena growled, dismissing the implied graft. "Well . . . hand out those permits and get the kids busy unpacking those boxes. There's hardware and extra ammo under the books."
"Okay."
"Get the books stacked around, make it 1ook good. Put a couple of empty boxes up by the window and let the label show, in case anybody wants to look in and see what we got here." Pena wiped a trickle of perspiration from each temple and added: "Make it quick and get the kids back into those cars. Christ, we'll dehydrate in this dump." He held out a hand. "Gimme some of those business cards, I'm gonna pass some around to our next-door neighbors. Community relations, you know, and it'll give me a chance to look around." He winked, pocketed the cards, and walked toward the front of the building, dragging Walker with him. "Listen, I want one of those big choppers on the floor in each car. And put some books in the back windows, and I want every man with a book in his hand. This has gotta look good. And listen . . . I don't want those cars parked in a alley when we're all mobbed up in here. One car in the alley, in case we need it quick . . . the others you spot around close. Just make sure they're where we can get to them, and that we're not gonna get blocked off or locked in."
Walker nodded his understanding of the instructions, closed the door behind Pena's departure, and immediately began carrying out the orders. Upon Pena's return some minutes later, the store looked precisely as it was meant to look — like a hurriedly set up center of operations for a crew of itinerant book salesmen. A city map which Walker had purchased for $1.25 from the City Clerk's office was tacked to a wall, on which was being marked the assignment for each squad.
"How long's it gonna take us to cover this hick burg?" Pena inquired.
Willie Walker stared reflectively at the large map. "I'd say we can tap every house in about three to four hours, if we move fast. Five or six if want it real careful."
"I want it fast," Pena replied, "I just spotted something real interesting over in that parking lot."
"Yeah?" Walker said, his eyes shifting quickly from the map to his boss' face.
"Yeah." Pena was frowning in thoughtful concentration. "Julio's car. Bolan must have dumped it there. I walked past quick and casual. Keys are in it. Blood spots on the seat."
"What's on your mind, Lou?"
"I'm just wondering if the bulls have that car staked out. I saw something else interesting, Willie. Two L.A. cops just walked into the police station."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You sure you sold the hicks on our cover?"
"I'm pretty sure."
"You gotta do better than pretty sure, Willie."
"Okay, I'm sure. They're sold, Lou. All the guy was worried about was getting his fifty for this shack."
Pena rubbed his nose, glared at the city map, then sighed and said, "Let's get moving. I want Johnny Spiffy to stay with Julio's car, though. But tell 'im to not fall for no cops' tricks. Make sure he has a picture of this Bolan. Make sure everybody has one. And Willie . . ."
"Yeah, Lou?"
"Make sure everybody understands one thing. We're here to hit this guy Bolan. I don't want no sloppy fingers. Any soldier tells me he saw Bolan, and then can't tell me he saw him dead . . . well, he just better not come back at all, Willie. You know?"
"I know, Lou. Don't worry. We got the best crew in the country. We'll get this Blacksuit Bolan."
"We better, Willie. Mr. DiGeorge says we better."
"What if the cops get to him first, Lou?"
"Then there'll be some dead cops, too. We ain't backing down to no cops on this hit, Willie. You know?"
The rented store suddenly seemed much cooler to Willie Walker. The veteran Mafia triggerman solemnly nodded his head and replied, "I know, Lou."
Chapter Eight
The hit
Mack Bolan was seated comfortably on a leather recliner in Jim Brantzen's living quarters. His hair, which he had bleached on his departure from the East some weeks earlier, was now darkened again to a jet black and the temples lightened with glints of silver. Small plastic discs were affixed to the forehead above each eye and over each cheekbone. A narrow linear shell of the same substance and about one inch long covered each side of his lower jaw, meeting at the chin. An ordinary oversized Band-Aid covered the bridge of his nose.
"How goes it?" asked Brantzen, entering through the doorway from the clinic.
"Great, I guess," Bolan replied, speaking through barely parted lips. "Just don't ask me to get chatty."
"You want some more freeze?" the doctor asked solicitously.
Bolan carefully shook his head and raised a hand-mirror to inspect once again his rearranged features. "Can't believe it's me," he mumbled. "How long before I can get along without these doo-dads?"
"Those 'doo-dads' are a hell of an improvement over being wrapped up like a gift, Mack," the surgeon replied. "Just remember, they're the only thing holding you together."
"Yeah, but for how long?"
Brantzen shrugged his shoulders. "Depends on your recuperative powers. Maybe a week. Maybe two. It's a pressure principle for suturing, Mack. Beats hell out of stitching. You fool with them, though, and you'll have some damn messy scar tissue. Leave them alone to work their magic and you'll come out of it as pretty and pink as a baby's butt."
"Hard to believe it could be so simple," Bolan commented stiffly, his lips still numbed from the anaesthetic.
"Not so simple," Brantzen said, grinning. "You're going to start feeling like you'd been worked over with brass knucks when that freeze begins to wear off. I removed a bit of bone here and there, mostly from the nose, and added plastic in other areas. It's soft stuff, Mack, sort of like cartilage, and it just could start travelling on you. If it does, you beat it back here and let me take care of it. All in all, though, the techniques of today are far superior to anything we had just a few years ago. We could, you know, almost put you back just the way you were . . . if you ever feel the need of it."
"Or could you change me again?"
The surgeon nodded his head. "Sure. Of course, this sort of tampering with nature shouldn't be overdone." He smiled. "You should see what we can do with a skinny girl's bustline, or hipline, or whatever needs adjusting for that matter."
Bolan tried to smile back but found that his facial muscles would not cooperate. "Next you'll be telling me you've got help for certain male-type problems," he mummed.
"There's hardly any limit, Mack," Brantzen solemnly replied. "The sort of thing I've done on you is child's play compared to some of the restorative type work I get in here. I didn't have to rebuild tissues on you, you know . . . just altered an angle here and there. Still, you have to watch yourself. A bit of carelessness on your part and the whole thing could fall apart. You follow those instructions I gave you, and I mean to the letter."
"There won't be any telltale scars?"
"Not if you follow the instructions. At least, nothing that could be detected by anybody but another plastic surgeon."
Bolan was again staring into the mirror. "It's phenomenal," he said. "Even with the doo-dads, I look just like the sketch. It's just a mask, though, isn't it? A different kind, but still a mask. That isn't me in that mirror."
Brantzen nodded and said, "If you want to get technical, then it's a mask. But a mask you can live behind forever."
"Or fight behind," Bolan said softly.
The surgeon's eyes dropped and he twisted his hands together in some silent emotion. "I sort of thought you'd get that idea," he murmured.
"It's not just an idea, Jim." Bolan dropped the mirror onto his lap. "It's a commitment. I have no choice. I fight until I win or until I die."
"It's 'Nam all over again," Brantzen said sorrowfully.
"That's about what it is," Bolan agreed.
"The meek shall inherit the earth," The surgeon reminded his patient, smiling solemnly.
"Yeah," the Executioner said. "But not until the violent have tamed it." He winced and raised his hands to tenderly probe his cheeks with fingertips,
"You're starting to get the kick?" Brantzen asked him.
"Is that what it is?" Bolan grimaced. "I thought someone just hit me with a baseball bat."
"When it starts feeling like a jackhammer, let me know. I can help you over the rough period."
"Not with junk," Bolan protested.
"Nothing else will help, Mack."
"Then I'll go it alone." Bolan staggered to his feet, grabbing the chair to steady himself. "I've got to keep my mind clear."
"So it doesn't get too meek, eh." Brantzen didn't mean for the comment to sound sarcastic; it did, nevertheless.
"That's right." Bolan checked his machine pistol, ground his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, then slipped in a live clip of ammo. "I've been here too long already," he announced.
"You can't leave here in that shape, man!"
"Hell I can't. I've learned to smell them, Jim. They're around, take book on it."
"They who?" the surgeon asked, though he knew the answer.
"The hounds, the Mafia hounds. They're around, I can feel it."
Brantzen sighed and said, "Yeah, you're right, I guess. They've already been here. I wasn't going to tell you, but . . . well . . . if you're determined to go out there, Mack, don't stop to talk to any book salesmen."
"That's their trick, eh?" Bolan was getting his gear together.
"That's the trick. The two who were here were very clumsy about it. Offered to donate a set of their books for my waiting room if I'd let them come in and pitch to my in-patients. I told them I was empty at the moment. I am, in fact. Then they . . ."
"They tumble to what kind of place this is?" Bolan asked quickly.
Brantzen shook his head. "I doubt that very much. They seemed to think I was running a nursing home or something. Started asking if I'd heard the shooting last night . . . if any of my 'old folks' were disturbed . . . that sort of stuff. Trying to trip me up, I think, because I'd already told them I was empty. I guess I satisfied them. I saw them going into the house across the way."
"Did you see them come out?" Bolan asked, his tone ominous.
Brantzen shook his head in a silent reply.
"Show me the house. Then show me how to get out of here without being seen from that house, and then . . ."
Bolan was interrupted by a light rapping at the door. He swung against the wall as Brantzen answered the summons. Bolan caught a quick glimpse of a pretty woman in a white uniform as she announced: "The Chief of Police would like to talk to you, Doctor. Shall I put him in your office, or . . ."
Brantzen nodded and said, "I'll be right along," and pushed the door shut. "Goddammit," he whispered. "Genghis Conn has come a'calling."
A flurry of sounds denoting a light scuffle came from beyond the door; then it opened again and a tall man in a khaki uniform stepped into the room, holding a gray desert felt hat in both hands. "I told the little lady it was an unofficial visit, Doc," he said in a soft voice. He smiled genially at Brantzen, then his eyes shifted to Bolan, who was frozen at the wall. The policeman's gaze bounced off the bulge of the weapon, concealed beneath a folded jacket draping Bolan's arm, and returned to the surgeon's flustered countenance.
"Everybody relax," Conn said, still smiling. "I didn't come here to be a hero." The gaze flicked again to Bolan. "Nor to bury one," he added.
"I . . . I'm with a patient, Genghis," Brantzen declared testily.
"I can see that." Conn tossed his hat onto a table and dropped his lank frame into a char. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, took a bite out of it, and continued eyeing Bolan.
Bolan returned to the recliner and eased onto it, half relaxing into the cushions, the jacket still in place across one arm. "It's okay, Jim," Bolan murmured.
The policeman said, "Sure, it's okay, I just stopped by to gab. The doc and I have spent many pleasant moments swapping ideas about war and peace. That right, Doc?"
Brantzen woodenly nodded his head, moved jerkily to a chair, and perched tensely on its edge, his hands clasped across one knee.
"We both abhor violence." Conn laughed softly and took another plug out of the cigar, rolled it into his cheek, and leaned toward Bolan. "Might sound funny, a lawman who wants only peace and tranquility, but . . . see . . . law enforcement's the only business I know. So . . . I came to the desert, looking for the same thing most people seek here. Peace." He laughed again. "I'm not a law officer . . . I'm a peace officer." The eyes twinkled toward Brantzen. "We were talking about that just the other night, Doc . . . remember?"
Brantzen again nodded his head. "You run a quiet town, Genghis," he said stiffly.
"Damn right. Mean for it to stay that way, too." The gaze swung to Bolan. "Have you committed any crimes in my town, Mister?"
Bolan said, "None that I can think of."
Conn solemnly moved his head in an agreeable jerk. "That's what I was thinking." He sighed, fiddled with the cigar, and added, "Of course, violence has a way of expanding, squirting into the peaceful zones, running rampant. I wouldn't want that to happen here. You planning on staying in my town long, Mister?"
Bolan said, "I was just leaving."
Conn heaved to his feet. "Give you a lift?"
Bolan exchanged glances with Brantzen. The surgeon gave a tight nod. "Just follow my instructions to the letter and you'll be all right. A dry icepack will control swelling and reduce pain. Keep it dry, though. And leave the covers until they fall off. If you notice any inflammation around the edges, get to a doctor immediately?" He jumped to his feet and pulled Bolan's suitcase from a corner. "I'll help you outside."
"I'm parked out back," Conn advised. He went out the door first, leading the way. Bolan followed close behind, gingerly feeling of his face.
Brantzen overtook his patient, moving alongside as they strolled across the lobby. He thrust a pair of oversize sunglasses at Bolan and said, "You might want to use them. They'll conceal most of the patchwork."
Bolan grunted his thanks and added, in a low voice, "Is this guy for real?"
"I don't know, "Brantzen replied in a hoarse whisper. "He's an odd one. Never could figure him. I believe he knows who you are, though."
"Sure he does," Bolan quietly muttered. "Well . . . guess I'll just play it by ear. Thanks again, Jim. And take care of that envelope for me, eh?"
The surgeon jerked his head and said, "I was talking to the hospital less than an hour ago. The old man's going to make it."
"Great. He'll need the money." They paused in the doorway. Conn had gone ahead and was opening the car door on the passenger's side. Bolan gripped his friend's hand and said, "Jim . . . I don't know how to thank you."
"You thanked me years ago. Just keep an eye on Genghis Conn. There's no telling what he has in mind."
"I'm getting a good feeling about Conn," Bolan said, then he seized the suitcase and walked quickly to the car. Conn took the suitcase off his hands and placed it on the rear seat. Bolan tossed a farewell wave to his benefactor, then slid into the front seat of the police car.
Conn went around and climbed in behind the wheel. "Where to, Mister?" he asked quietly.
"That's your decision," Bolan replied tautly. "Your town, Chief, is crawling with undesirables."
"Don't I know it." Conn sighed and started the engine.
The jackhammers were beginning to work over Bolan's face. He stared through the window with a sinking feeling as the big car went into motion and New Horizons slid to the rear. Horizons, Bolan was thinking, never stood still for a moving man. He wondered what lay beyond his next one.
"I'll drop you outside of town, Mister," Conn was saying. "I don't give a damn where you go from there. You can go to hell if you want to, just so it's out of my town, and just so you take your hell along with you."
"No worry there," Bolan quipped. "Hell has a way of following me around."
"I guess you invited it, Mister."
"I guess I did."
The Executioner's hell also had a way of lying in wait for him. The police car had swung around the rear corner of the New Horizons and was straightening into the tree-shaded lane running along the south of the property when a white Chrysler lurched from a secluded driveway and bounced to a halt directly in their path. Another big car pulled across the lane some fifty feet behind them as Conn burned rubber in an arcing halt. Two men leapt from the porch of a house directly opposite Brantzen's clinic and ran a zig-zag pattern across the lawn, pistols poised.
"That Goddamn Braddock!" Conn snarled.
Bolan's jacket had already dropped away, revealing the small chattergun. "They're not cops!" he snapped, slumping in the seat and getting a good grip on the door latch. The sudden movement sent shivers of agony into his fast-awakening face.
Conn's gun hand was fighting the flap of his hoister when a submachine gun appeared over the hood of the Chrysler and a high-pitched voice sang out, "We want your passenger out on the street where we can get a good look at him. Slowly, slowly. Come out with both hands in sight."
Bolan glanced at Conn and pushed the door open.
"You don't want to go out there, Mister!" Conn hissed.
"Amen," said Bolan.
Conn released his door and cracked it open. "Get ready to hit the deck." Then he was throwing himself sideways toward Bolan and his foot was grinding the accelerator into the floorboard. The big car spurted forward in a wild semi-circle, windshield and window glass shattering under a steady drumfire of heavy-calibre-bullets as the chopper cut loose on them.
"You're on your own, Mister!" Conn cried, just as the police car plowed into the Chrysler.
The staccato of the machine gun silenced abruptly. Bolan found himself lying half out of the car. Conn, his door jammed against the Chrysler, was firing his revolver through the shattered windshield. A new volley of fire, this time from the rear, tore through the police car. Conn grunted and said, "Shit, I'm hit."
Bolan drew his legs clear and rolled under the car, passing beneath both vehicles and scooting into the open on the far aide of the Chrysler. A large man with a gashed forehead was staggering out of the driver's seat and almost placed a foot on Bolan's chest. Bolan shot him in the mouth as the man gaped down at him, and he had to dodge the falling body. The Mafioso with the machine gun was kneeling against the curb, blood trickling from a compound break at the left elbow. He tried to bring the big gun up with one hand. Bolan zippered him from groin to throat with a quick upward sweep of his chattering weapon. He slung his own gun, then, and crawled carefully toward the fallen submachine gun.
"How goes it?" asked Brantzen, entering through the doorway from the clinic.
"Great, I guess," Bolan replied, speaking through barely parted lips. "Just don't ask me to get chatty."
"You want some more freeze?" the doctor asked solicitously.
Bolan carefully shook his head and raised a hand-mirror to inspect once again his rearranged features. "Can't believe it's me," he mumbled. "How long before I can get along without these doo-dads?"
"Those 'doo-dads' are a hell of an improvement over being wrapped up like a gift, Mack," the surgeon replied. "Just remember, they're the only thing holding you together."
"Yeah, but for how long?"
Brantzen shrugged his shoulders. "Depends on your recuperative powers. Maybe a week. Maybe two. It's a pressure principle for suturing, Mack. Beats hell out of stitching. You fool with them, though, and you'll have some damn messy scar tissue. Leave them alone to work their magic and you'll come out of it as pretty and pink as a baby's butt."
"Hard to believe it could be so simple," Bolan commented stiffly, his lips still numbed from the anaesthetic.
"Not so simple," Brantzen said, grinning. "You're going to start feeling like you'd been worked over with brass knucks when that freeze begins to wear off. I removed a bit of bone here and there, mostly from the nose, and added plastic in other areas. It's soft stuff, Mack, sort of like cartilage, and it just could start travelling on you. If it does, you beat it back here and let me take care of it. All in all, though, the techniques of today are far superior to anything we had just a few years ago. We could, you know, almost put you back just the way you were . . . if you ever feel the need of it."
"Or could you change me again?"
The surgeon nodded his head. "Sure. Of course, this sort of tampering with nature shouldn't be overdone." He smiled. "You should see what we can do with a skinny girl's bustline, or hipline, or whatever needs adjusting for that matter."
Bolan tried to smile back but found that his facial muscles would not cooperate. "Next you'll be telling me you've got help for certain male-type problems," he mummed.
"There's hardly any limit, Mack," Brantzen solemnly replied. "The sort of thing I've done on you is child's play compared to some of the restorative type work I get in here. I didn't have to rebuild tissues on you, you know . . . just altered an angle here and there. Still, you have to watch yourself. A bit of carelessness on your part and the whole thing could fall apart. You follow those instructions I gave you, and I mean to the letter."
"There won't be any telltale scars?"
"Not if you follow the instructions. At least, nothing that could be detected by anybody but another plastic surgeon."
Bolan was again staring into the mirror. "It's phenomenal," he said. "Even with the doo-dads, I look just like the sketch. It's just a mask, though, isn't it? A different kind, but still a mask. That isn't me in that mirror."
Brantzen nodded and said, "If you want to get technical, then it's a mask. But a mask you can live behind forever."
"Or fight behind," Bolan said softly.
The surgeon's eyes dropped and he twisted his hands together in some silent emotion. "I sort of thought you'd get that idea," he murmured.
"It's not just an idea, Jim." Bolan dropped the mirror onto his lap. "It's a commitment. I have no choice. I fight until I win or until I die."
"It's 'Nam all over again," Brantzen said sorrowfully.
"That's about what it is," Bolan agreed.
"The meek shall inherit the earth," The surgeon reminded his patient, smiling solemnly.
"Yeah," the Executioner said. "But not until the violent have tamed it." He winced and raised his hands to tenderly probe his cheeks with fingertips,
"You're starting to get the kick?" Brantzen asked him.
"Is that what it is?" Bolan grimaced. "I thought someone just hit me with a baseball bat."
"When it starts feeling like a jackhammer, let me know. I can help you over the rough period."
"Not with junk," Bolan protested.
"Nothing else will help, Mack."
"Then I'll go it alone." Bolan staggered to his feet, grabbing the chair to steady himself. "I've got to keep my mind clear."
"So it doesn't get too meek, eh." Brantzen didn't mean for the comment to sound sarcastic; it did, nevertheless.
"That's right." Bolan checked his machine pistol, ground his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, then slipped in a live clip of ammo. "I've been here too long already," he announced.
"You can't leave here in that shape, man!"
"Hell I can't. I've learned to smell them, Jim. They're around, take book on it."
"They who?" the surgeon asked, though he knew the answer.
"The hounds, the Mafia hounds. They're around, I can feel it."
Brantzen sighed and said, "Yeah, you're right, I guess. They've already been here. I wasn't going to tell you, but . . . well . . . if you're determined to go out there, Mack, don't stop to talk to any book salesmen."
"That's their trick, eh?" Bolan was getting his gear together.
"That's the trick. The two who were here were very clumsy about it. Offered to donate a set of their books for my waiting room if I'd let them come in and pitch to my in-patients. I told them I was empty at the moment. I am, in fact. Then they . . ."
"They tumble to what kind of place this is?" Bolan asked quickly.
Brantzen shook his head. "I doubt that very much. They seemed to think I was running a nursing home or something. Started asking if I'd heard the shooting last night . . . if any of my 'old folks' were disturbed . . . that sort of stuff. Trying to trip me up, I think, because I'd already told them I was empty. I guess I satisfied them. I saw them going into the house across the way."
"Did you see them come out?" Bolan asked, his tone ominous.
Brantzen shook his head in a silent reply.
"Show me the house. Then show me how to get out of here without being seen from that house, and then . . ."
Bolan was interrupted by a light rapping at the door. He swung against the wall as Brantzen answered the summons. Bolan caught a quick glimpse of a pretty woman in a white uniform as she announced: "The Chief of Police would like to talk to you, Doctor. Shall I put him in your office, or . . ."
Brantzen nodded and said, "I'll be right along," and pushed the door shut. "Goddammit," he whispered. "Genghis Conn has come a'calling."
A flurry of sounds denoting a light scuffle came from beyond the door; then it opened again and a tall man in a khaki uniform stepped into the room, holding a gray desert felt hat in both hands. "I told the little lady it was an unofficial visit, Doc," he said in a soft voice. He smiled genially at Brantzen, then his eyes shifted to Bolan, who was frozen at the wall. The policeman's gaze bounced off the bulge of the weapon, concealed beneath a folded jacket draping Bolan's arm, and returned to the surgeon's flustered countenance.
"Everybody relax," Conn said, still smiling. "I didn't come here to be a hero." The gaze flicked again to Bolan. "Nor to bury one," he added.
"I . . . I'm with a patient, Genghis," Brantzen declared testily.
"I can see that." Conn tossed his hat onto a table and dropped his lank frame into a char. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, took a bite out of it, and continued eyeing Bolan.
Bolan returned to the recliner and eased onto it, half relaxing into the cushions, the jacket still in place across one arm. "It's okay, Jim," Bolan murmured.
The policeman said, "Sure, it's okay, I just stopped by to gab. The doc and I have spent many pleasant moments swapping ideas about war and peace. That right, Doc?"
Brantzen woodenly nodded his head, moved jerkily to a chair, and perched tensely on its edge, his hands clasped across one knee.
"We both abhor violence." Conn laughed softly and took another plug out of the cigar, rolled it into his cheek, and leaned toward Bolan. "Might sound funny, a lawman who wants only peace and tranquility, but . . . see . . . law enforcement's the only business I know. So . . . I came to the desert, looking for the same thing most people seek here. Peace." He laughed again. "I'm not a law officer . . . I'm a peace officer." The eyes twinkled toward Brantzen. "We were talking about that just the other night, Doc . . . remember?"
Brantzen again nodded his head. "You run a quiet town, Genghis," he said stiffly.
"Damn right. Mean for it to stay that way, too." The gaze swung to Bolan. "Have you committed any crimes in my town, Mister?"
Bolan said, "None that I can think of."
Conn solemnly moved his head in an agreeable jerk. "That's what I was thinking." He sighed, fiddled with the cigar, and added, "Of course, violence has a way of expanding, squirting into the peaceful zones, running rampant. I wouldn't want that to happen here. You planning on staying in my town long, Mister?"
Bolan said, "I was just leaving."
Conn heaved to his feet. "Give you a lift?"
Bolan exchanged glances with Brantzen. The surgeon gave a tight nod. "Just follow my instructions to the letter and you'll be all right. A dry icepack will control swelling and reduce pain. Keep it dry, though. And leave the covers until they fall off. If you notice any inflammation around the edges, get to a doctor immediately?" He jumped to his feet and pulled Bolan's suitcase from a corner. "I'll help you outside."
"I'm parked out back," Conn advised. He went out the door first, leading the way. Bolan followed close behind, gingerly feeling of his face.
Brantzen overtook his patient, moving alongside as they strolled across the lobby. He thrust a pair of oversize sunglasses at Bolan and said, "You might want to use them. They'll conceal most of the patchwork."
Bolan grunted his thanks and added, in a low voice, "Is this guy for real?"
"I don't know, "Brantzen replied in a hoarse whisper. "He's an odd one. Never could figure him. I believe he knows who you are, though."
"Sure he does," Bolan quietly muttered. "Well . . . guess I'll just play it by ear. Thanks again, Jim. And take care of that envelope for me, eh?"
The surgeon jerked his head and said, "I was talking to the hospital less than an hour ago. The old man's going to make it."
"Great. He'll need the money." They paused in the doorway. Conn had gone ahead and was opening the car door on the passenger's side. Bolan gripped his friend's hand and said, "Jim . . . I don't know how to thank you."
"You thanked me years ago. Just keep an eye on Genghis Conn. There's no telling what he has in mind."
"I'm getting a good feeling about Conn," Bolan said, then he seized the suitcase and walked quickly to the car. Conn took the suitcase off his hands and placed it on the rear seat. Bolan tossed a farewell wave to his benefactor, then slid into the front seat of the police car.
Conn went around and climbed in behind the wheel. "Where to, Mister?" he asked quietly.
"That's your decision," Bolan replied tautly. "Your town, Chief, is crawling with undesirables."
"Don't I know it." Conn sighed and started the engine.
The jackhammers were beginning to work over Bolan's face. He stared through the window with a sinking feeling as the big car went into motion and New Horizons slid to the rear. Horizons, Bolan was thinking, never stood still for a moving man. He wondered what lay beyond his next one.
"I'll drop you outside of town, Mister," Conn was saying. "I don't give a damn where you go from there. You can go to hell if you want to, just so it's out of my town, and just so you take your hell along with you."
"No worry there," Bolan quipped. "Hell has a way of following me around."
"I guess you invited it, Mister."
"I guess I did."
The Executioner's hell also had a way of lying in wait for him. The police car had swung around the rear corner of the New Horizons and was straightening into the tree-shaded lane running along the south of the property when a white Chrysler lurched from a secluded driveway and bounced to a halt directly in their path. Another big car pulled across the lane some fifty feet behind them as Conn burned rubber in an arcing halt. Two men leapt from the porch of a house directly opposite Brantzen's clinic and ran a zig-zag pattern across the lawn, pistols poised.
"That Goddamn Braddock!" Conn snarled.
Bolan's jacket had already dropped away, revealing the small chattergun. "They're not cops!" he snapped, slumping in the seat and getting a good grip on the door latch. The sudden movement sent shivers of agony into his fast-awakening face.
Conn's gun hand was fighting the flap of his hoister when a submachine gun appeared over the hood of the Chrysler and a high-pitched voice sang out, "We want your passenger out on the street where we can get a good look at him. Slowly, slowly. Come out with both hands in sight."
Bolan glanced at Conn and pushed the door open.
"You don't want to go out there, Mister!" Conn hissed.
"Amen," said Bolan.
Conn released his door and cracked it open. "Get ready to hit the deck." Then he was throwing himself sideways toward Bolan and his foot was grinding the accelerator into the floorboard. The big car spurted forward in a wild semi-circle, windshield and window glass shattering under a steady drumfire of heavy-calibre-bullets as the chopper cut loose on them.
"You're on your own, Mister!" Conn cried, just as the police car plowed into the Chrysler.
The staccato of the machine gun silenced abruptly. Bolan found himself lying half out of the car. Conn, his door jammed against the Chrysler, was firing his revolver through the shattered windshield. A new volley of fire, this time from the rear, tore through the police car. Conn grunted and said, "Shit, I'm hit."
Bolan drew his legs clear and rolled under the car, passing beneath both vehicles and scooting into the open on the far aide of the Chrysler. A large man with a gashed forehead was staggering out of the driver's seat and almost placed a foot on Bolan's chest. Bolan shot him in the mouth as the man gaped down at him, and he had to dodge the falling body. The Mafioso with the machine gun was kneeling against the curb, blood trickling from a compound break at the left elbow. He tried to bring the big gun up with one hand. Bolan zippered him from groin to throat with a quick upward sweep of his chattering weapon. He slung his own gun, then, and crawled carefully toward the fallen submachine gun.