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Conn was lying in the front seat of the police car, firing sporadically to the rear, from around the doorpost. The two men who had approached from the house were holding cautious cover behind a line of trees some thirty feet to Bolan's left flank; one of them was shouting instructions to the rear vehicle. Bolan scooped up the submachine gun and lay a heavy fire pattern into the distant car, spraying for and finding a hot strike. Flames began licking around the hood, then there was a whooosh as fire enveloped the entire vehicle. A blazing figure staggered clear just as the whole thing blew in a roaring explosion.
Conn yelled "Bingo!" and began plunking shots toward the trees. Bolan abandoned the machine gun and moved out in a flanking maneuver with his lighter chattergun. The two men broke their cover, fleeing toward the house. Bolan was vaguely aware that Genghis Conn had moved with him, leaving his wrecked vehicle and moving rapidly across the street to the line of trees.
The resuming chatter of Bolan's light weapon was eclipsed by the sudden balooom of a shotgun. One of the fleeing men crumpled in midstride and crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap. The shotgun roared again and the second man was flung about in a flopping tumble. Conn stepped back into the street, smoke still curling from both barrels of the shotgun, and stared silently at Mack Bolan.
Bolan slipped a fresh clip of ammo into his gun and walked slowly toward the lawman. "Good shooting," he said quietly, " . . . for a peace officer."
Conn grinned and his eyes turned to a quick appraisal of the battle zone. "Damn, that. was quick;" he said in an awed voice. The right side of his khaki shirt was wetly red.
"How bad are you hit?" Bolan asked him.
"Not as bad as it feels, I guess," the lawman replied. "I'll just step back over to Doc Brantzen's and let him take a look." He was moving toward the police cruiser. "Think that Chrysler will run?" he asked Bolan.
"It looks all right," Bolan said.
"Okay. What I said goes. You're on your own. I'll give you a one minute jump. Then I'll have to call in. But listen . . . show up in my town again, I'll shoot you on sight." He was easing himself carefully, into the cruiser and searching for the radio microphone. "Off the record, Mister, I admire your guts. But I wouldn't give two cents for your future, new face or no."
Bolan said, "Thanks," and dragged his suitcase from the rear seat, tossed it into the Chrysler, pulled carefully away from the cruiser, and made his exit with a squeal of tires. In his rearview mirror, he saw Jim Brantzen running across the grounds of New Horizons, heading for the police car, a medical bag in his hand.
Bolan took the corner with a fishtailing swing, straightened out, and unleashed the power of the big car. The pain and the excitement had gotten to him. He ran a hand inside his shirt, probed carefully along his ribs, and came out with reddened fingers. In addition to everything else, he had been hit. He felt unreal, giddy, and suddenly very weak. Bolan fought down a wave of nausea and forced himself to concentrate on a way out of town. Little demons with tiny flamethrowers were working themselves into the bone above his eyes and sending pulsating bolts of hell down into his nose, flaring into his cheekbones, and along the jaw ridges. The throbbing slice along his ribs seemed pleasurable by contrast.
He remembered something Flower Child Andromede, one of his Death Squad dead, had said once: "Hell is for the living."
Mack Bolan knew where his new horizon was leading him.
It was the Horizon to Hell.
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Conn yelled "Bingo!" and began plunking shots toward the trees. Bolan abandoned the machine gun and moved out in a flanking maneuver with his lighter chattergun. The two men broke their cover, fleeing toward the house. Bolan was vaguely aware that Genghis Conn had moved with him, leaving his wrecked vehicle and moving rapidly across the street to the line of trees.
The resuming chatter of Bolan's light weapon was eclipsed by the sudden balooom of a shotgun. One of the fleeing men crumpled in midstride and crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap. The shotgun roared again and the second man was flung about in a flopping tumble. Conn stepped back into the street, smoke still curling from both barrels of the shotgun, and stared silently at Mack Bolan.
Bolan slipped a fresh clip of ammo into his gun and walked slowly toward the lawman. "Good shooting," he said quietly, " . . . for a peace officer."
Conn grinned and his eyes turned to a quick appraisal of the battle zone. "Damn, that. was quick;" he said in an awed voice. The right side of his khaki shirt was wetly red.
"How bad are you hit?" Bolan asked him.
"Not as bad as it feels, I guess," the lawman replied. "I'll just step back over to Doc Brantzen's and let him take a look." He was moving toward the police cruiser. "Think that Chrysler will run?" he asked Bolan.
"It looks all right," Bolan said.
"Okay. What I said goes. You're on your own. I'll give you a one minute jump. Then I'll have to call in. But listen . . . show up in my town again, I'll shoot you on sight." He was easing himself carefully, into the cruiser and searching for the radio microphone. "Off the record, Mister, I admire your guts. But I wouldn't give two cents for your future, new face or no."
Bolan said, "Thanks," and dragged his suitcase from the rear seat, tossed it into the Chrysler, pulled carefully away from the cruiser, and made his exit with a squeal of tires. In his rearview mirror, he saw Jim Brantzen running across the grounds of New Horizons, heading for the police car, a medical bag in his hand.
Bolan took the corner with a fishtailing swing, straightened out, and unleashed the power of the big car. The pain and the excitement had gotten to him. He ran a hand inside his shirt, probed carefully along his ribs, and came out with reddened fingers. In addition to everything else, he had been hit. He felt unreal, giddy, and suddenly very weak. Bolan fought down a wave of nausea and forced himself to concentrate on a way out of town. Little demons with tiny flamethrowers were working themselves into the bone above his eyes and sending pulsating bolts of hell down into his nose, flaring into his cheekbones, and along the jaw ridges. The throbbing slice along his ribs seemed pleasurable by contrast.
He remembered something Flower Child Andromede, one of his Death Squad dead, had said once: "Hell is for the living."
Mack Bolan knew where his new horizon was leading him.
It was the Horizon to Hell.
Chapter Nine
The imbalance
According to the official record, the October 5th bloodbath at Palm Village was sparked when the Chief of Police was stopped at an illegal roadblock on the eastern edge of that city. Aware that his small desert town had become the object of a search for the infamous Mack Bolan by a special detail of Los Angeles police as well as by "triggermen from an L.A. mob," Chief Robert (Genghis) Conn stated that he had at first thought the roadblock to be the work of the special police detail headed by Los Angeles Captain of Detectives, Tim Braddock, but that "it immediately thereafter became clearly evident that I had happened into a Mafia dragnet for this Bolan character."
Upon questioning by reporters, Chief Conn was unable to explain how he had single-handedly slain the eight gunmen at the scene, who were armed with two submachine guns as well as a variety of other weapons. "At a time like that, who's thinking?" Conn remarked. "It's a matter of reflexes and instinct, I'm as surprised as anyone that I came out of it with only a scratched rib."
Several newsmen, in filing their reports, hinted that the full story had not been revealed, pointing out the similarity of this initial battle at Palm Village with other known episodes involving Mack Bolan, the Executioner. The ensuing action in that previously peaceful city proved more typical of police-gangster confrontations and shootouts. Responding to Chief Conn's alarm, three cars of the special LAPD detail which converged on the scene flushed another group of supposed book salesmen (later identified as Cosa Nostra "soldiers," as was the first group) who had been canvassing a neighborhood several blocks to the west of the first encounter.
"They (the book salesmen) opened fire first," said Sgt. Carl Lyons of the L.A. detail. "I wouldn't even have noticed them otherwise. Apparently they had heard the fireworks from Genghis Conn's shootout and, misreading it as a hit on Bolan, were trying to divert us from the scene. There was just myself and Patrolman Hank Edwards in my car. We were sprayed by an automatic weapon from pointblank range, and Edwards lost control of the car. We rolled, and I guess that's what saved us. There were five gunmen in the attacking force, and they had quite an arsenal. The overturned cruiser gave us good cover and the radio was still operational. We had help in a matter of seconds. Three of the hoods were killed at the scene, one surrendered with a flesh wound in the leg, and another tried to escape in their vehicle. He ran right into Captain Braddock at the first intersection and was killed in the collision. The Captain got out of it with only a wrenched shoulder. I guess the single gunman who managed to break out and flee from the shootout with Conn just kept on going. No . . . we have no idea of his identity."
The Palm Village toll so far: 12 Mafia dead, 1 arrested; 3 policemen lightly wounded; 2 private automobiles destroyed; 1 Palm Village official vehicle moderately damaged; 2 LAPD cars heavily damaged. The worst was yet to come.
While most of the law enforcers in the city were still at the scenes of the earlier battles, a Palm Village foot patrolman, alerted to the hostile forces encamped in that city, had become suspicious of a man in a dark, late-model Lincoln Continental which had occupied the Municipal Parking Lot for most of the morning. The patrolman had noticed that the man had been paying rapt attention to an almost identical vehicle in a closeby space. The second vehicle had been ticketed for overparking, by that same officer. "Every time I showed the least interest in that 'overpark' this guy in the other car got agitated," the patrolman later reported. "Finally I just went over and invited him out of the car. I just wanted to see his driver's license so I could identify him later, in case something turned up, you know, but when I got a good look at the guy's face I started deciding I'd better shake him down good first. I just didn't like his looks. Well, he came out of that car fighting mad. He didn't pull no gun, not at first, but he tried to knee me. I sort of twisted around that, but I caught the knee in my gut and it sort of knocked the wind out for a second. But I rapped him across the elbow with my club, and I was down on one knee there, and the next thing I know I'm looking up the barrel of a gun. I don't know why it didn't tear my face off. He was so close when he fired that I got powder burns, and the Doc is still a little worried about my eyes — but believe it or not, he missed me. I heard the bullet sing past my ear, but I guess I still thought I was hit. I couldn't see much and there was a lot of pain in my face. Well, I went down . . . holding my face in my hands. Then I realized right away I wasn't really hurt and I came right back up again. The guy was running across the street. I saw him going around the corner into Lodetown and I ran after him. I saw him disappear into the old Brown's Mercantile, an empty store there. He was with those other people, those book people. I'd just been talking to them a couple of hours earlier, and they'd seemed like all right guys. Well, I was running on over to headquarters to get some reinforcements when I bumped into Gene Perkins, one of our patrolmen. Gene was off duty and downtown with his wife, doing some shopping. He sent me on to headquarters and he tore off for Brown's Mercantile. Headquarters was deserted when I got there. It took me a minute or two to raise the Chief on the radio. And then I guess I passed out. The Doc says I got a light concussion out of that blast in the face."
The narrative continues, as picked up by Patrolman Gene Perkins: "I saw this big black car easing out of the alley behind Brown's just as I was arriving at the scene. I was on foot and I wasn't in uniform, but I always carry a gun. I have a special off-duty revolver I carry m a swingout holster under my jacket. My wife always used to rag me about wearing that gun around — you know, she called me Joe Friday — but a police officer is always on duty, he's never really off. Well, I stepped out in the street with my gun drawn, and I signal for this car to stop. Instead of stopping, he throws into reverse and scoots back inside the alley. I see two men in the front seat, and I think one or two were in the back. I fire a shot in the air and yell for them to halt. I'm running toward the alley, see, and just about the time I get there, they're coming out again, fast this time, and I hear it even before I see it, so I know what's coming. I jump the curb and whirl up against the side of Al's Bar and Grill — I'm standing maybe ten feet from the alley when they come busting out. I put a shot right through the wing vent window and I have to say, the guy has quick reflexes. He stands that big job on its nose, he's not even completely clear of the alley yet, and he's in reverse and gunning backwards again. Meanwhile I'm flat on my belly and getting as small as possible — these guys are returning my fire!
"Soon as they're out of sight again, I'm scrambling to my feet and I'm peering around the corner of the building. They're already halfway to the other end of the alley, and wouldn't luck have it, there's a beer truck down behind Molly's Joint, blocking the alley. They're sealed in, see. This one gunman jumps out of the back seat and he's yelling at the guy unloading the beer truck. The beer driver is ignoring him and going on about his business. I pump a shot through their grill just to keep the pressure on. Then this guy that was doing all the yelling is back there clubbing the truck driver with his gun. I see it, plain as day, from less than half a block away. The one with the gun is climbing up into the cab of the truck. I'm getting plenty of return fire, don't worry about that. Those guys have a chopper down there, and they're using it, so I'm forced to shoot with my left hand around the corner of the building, so I'm not exposing myself. I never tried lefthanded firing before — call it a lucky shot with that little snubnose .32 — but I drilled that hood as he was standing behind the wheel of the beer truck. He falls back into the alley. Then another piece of luck came my way. Or don't call it luck, call it civic spirit and supporting your policemen. Old John Trappolino, lives down on the south side, retired bricklayer, I think, comes into Lodetown every day about that time for a quiet glass of beer and a couple of games of shufflebowl at Al's place. Usually parks right there on Second Street, at the side of Al's. I guess John saw what was going on. Anyway, all of a sudden here he comes in that little Rambler of his, just easing along in low gear, his door open. I see John stepping out of the car and it's still moving, like he was a teen-ager, that nimble you know. The Rambler jumps the curb right behind me and heads into that alley at an angle and it hits the wall of the Village Bakery and dies there, angled into the alley and corking it good.
"Well, these guys in the black car aren't going to be going anywhere for now, for sure. They abandon the car and they're scampering through the back entrance of Brown's Mercantile when I hear the sirens tearing toward Lodetown. I guessed that Arthur, the other patrolman, was sending me some help. I can tell you with no feeling of shame at all that I was damn glad to hear them coming. I'm running for Main Street now, and people are all out in the street trying to see what's happening. This hampers me a little, but I still round ,the corner just as the front door to Brown's opens and a guy pokes his head out. I throw a shot at him. It misses, but takes out the window behind him and this serves the purpose. He thinks they're covered front and back, see, and he dodges back inside the store, and I'd have given a nickel for their thoughts about that time. Then the Chief and the Hardcase cops arrive, and we've really got them sealed in there now. They died hard, though. I wouldn't want to die that way."
October 5th was the day that Lodetown burned to the ground, every building on the four blocks around the square being leveled in a spectacular fire that was immediately beyond the control of the small fire department. It is known that the blaze originated in the interior of an ancient structure which had originally housed a general store known as Brown's Mercantile Company, and which had been short-term rented only that morning to a Mafia cadre posing as book salesmen. It was suspected that the fire had been deliberate set by the three unidentified underworld figures who bad taken refuge in the building, possibly intended to create confusion and thus provide a diversion for their escape. If this was the intent, then the plan backfired on its perpetrators. Their charred bodies, burned beyond any possibility of identification, were found near the rear door of the building.
At the height of the fire, another shootout occurred between police and "two carloads of gunmen" in the street adjoining Lodetown. The running battle erupted when Captain Tim Braddock spotted the two vehicles cruising "in obvious curiosity" past the scene of the conflagration. Braddock identified one of the occupants as Lou "Screwy Looey" Pena, a long-suspected Mafia "enforcer" in the DiGeorge Family. Three of Braddock's officers were found wounded in this encounter, one seriously, and an innocent bystander, a familiar Lodetown figure known only as Indian Joe, was caught in the crossfire and killed. The two vehicles made good their escape, aided by the confusion attending the fire, and were later found abandoned in another section of the city. Dried blood was found in both automobiles, indicating that some of the police bullets had found their marks.
All in all, the full toll of the Battle at Palm Village was a fearful one: 32 commercial buildings, old but still functional and housing thriving businesses were destroyed, 26 private automobiles were burned to a total loss. Surprisingly, there were no human casualties of the fire, other than those previously noted. But Lodetown, a quaint if somewhat bawdy reminiscence of the Old West, suddenly ceased to be. The "balance" of Genghis Conn's town had been overturned. Upon the site of Lodetown would arise a modern business complex with no room for lonely farmhands and their naughty companions of the night. A new tax structure would necessarily emerge from the transformation; the Palm Village police force would become updated, more responsible, less "peaceful."
Staring solemnly at the ashes of Lodetown some hours later, Genghis Corm confided to Doctor Jim Brantzen: "It had to happen, Doc. Your friend was the catalyst this town needed . . . and that I needed. I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry for all the loss of life and property, but . . . at the same time . . . I'm not sorry. If you ever see that friend of yours again, tell 'im that Genghis Conn has no regrets."
"I'll tell him that . . . if I ever see him again," the surgeon replied.
Big Tim Braddock, returning to Los Angeles with his junior officer, Carl Lyons, offered a contrasting view. "You can see what a disaster this Mack Bolan is, Sergeant," he growled. "I hope I never again hear any Pollyannish nonsense out of you concerning the virtues and social values of this feud of his. He brings out the worst in everything he touches. We've got to get that guy! We've got to get him before he sends, the whole damn state sliding into the sea!"
"It's a damn shame," Lyons replied faintly.
"What?"
"I said it's a damn shame," the Sergeant repeated; his voice growing stronger. "It's a shame that Bolan has to take the rap for all of our mistakes."
"Whose mistakes?" Braddock said angrily.
"Ours. All of us. You and me and John and Jane and all of us straight citizens. Bolan's no disaster, Cap'n, no more than a compass is the North Pole. You can fire me if it'll give you any comfort, but if you and I were good enough cops . . . then there wouldn't be any Bolan. Bolan's no disaster, Cap'n. He's an indictment. He's indicting you and me and society at large, for malfeasance and gross . . ."
"That's enough of that!" Big Tim roared.
"Not even nearly," Lyons quietly replied.
They drove in silence for a moment, then Braddock said, "You're out, Carl. I guess I can't blame you for your own personal feelings. I mean, I guess I can understand. But those feelings disqualify you for Hardcase. I'll turn in your release tonight."
"Thanks," Lyons said. "But it's probably an unnecessary formality. Somehow I feel that we'll never see Bolan again."
"How's that?" the Captain asked.
"I don't know." Lyons sighed heavily. "I just feel that we've witnessed the end of an era. I think Hardcase is dead by default."
Braddock shifted his weight uncomfortably, reached for a cigarette, and growled, "Over my dead body, buddy. I'll see that bastard behind bars or I'll turn in my badge."
"Hope you'll enjoy your retirement," Lyons muttered.
"What?"
Lyons slumped over the wheel of the speeding vehicle and peered doggedly ahead. "I was just thinking out loud," he said. "I still think this is the end of an era."
"We'll see about that," Braddock said.
Sgt. Lyons was partially correct. The Palm Village episode did mark a turning point for the Executioner. But it was a turn into eclipse, not into extinction. Mack Bolan, behind his mask, was about to enter the most menacing and suspenseful stage of his adventures against the Mafia. He had decided to "get inside" Julian DiGeorge's Western family . . . and the Executioner's mask was going to put him there.
Upon questioning by reporters, Chief Conn was unable to explain how he had single-handedly slain the eight gunmen at the scene, who were armed with two submachine guns as well as a variety of other weapons. "At a time like that, who's thinking?" Conn remarked. "It's a matter of reflexes and instinct, I'm as surprised as anyone that I came out of it with only a scratched rib."
Several newsmen, in filing their reports, hinted that the full story had not been revealed, pointing out the similarity of this initial battle at Palm Village with other known episodes involving Mack Bolan, the Executioner. The ensuing action in that previously peaceful city proved more typical of police-gangster confrontations and shootouts. Responding to Chief Conn's alarm, three cars of the special LAPD detail which converged on the scene flushed another group of supposed book salesmen (later identified as Cosa Nostra "soldiers," as was the first group) who had been canvassing a neighborhood several blocks to the west of the first encounter.
"They (the book salesmen) opened fire first," said Sgt. Carl Lyons of the L.A. detail. "I wouldn't even have noticed them otherwise. Apparently they had heard the fireworks from Genghis Conn's shootout and, misreading it as a hit on Bolan, were trying to divert us from the scene. There was just myself and Patrolman Hank Edwards in my car. We were sprayed by an automatic weapon from pointblank range, and Edwards lost control of the car. We rolled, and I guess that's what saved us. There were five gunmen in the attacking force, and they had quite an arsenal. The overturned cruiser gave us good cover and the radio was still operational. We had help in a matter of seconds. Three of the hoods were killed at the scene, one surrendered with a flesh wound in the leg, and another tried to escape in their vehicle. He ran right into Captain Braddock at the first intersection and was killed in the collision. The Captain got out of it with only a wrenched shoulder. I guess the single gunman who managed to break out and flee from the shootout with Conn just kept on going. No . . . we have no idea of his identity."
The Palm Village toll so far: 12 Mafia dead, 1 arrested; 3 policemen lightly wounded; 2 private automobiles destroyed; 1 Palm Village official vehicle moderately damaged; 2 LAPD cars heavily damaged. The worst was yet to come.
While most of the law enforcers in the city were still at the scenes of the earlier battles, a Palm Village foot patrolman, alerted to the hostile forces encamped in that city, had become suspicious of a man in a dark, late-model Lincoln Continental which had occupied the Municipal Parking Lot for most of the morning. The patrolman had noticed that the man had been paying rapt attention to an almost identical vehicle in a closeby space. The second vehicle had been ticketed for overparking, by that same officer. "Every time I showed the least interest in that 'overpark' this guy in the other car got agitated," the patrolman later reported. "Finally I just went over and invited him out of the car. I just wanted to see his driver's license so I could identify him later, in case something turned up, you know, but when I got a good look at the guy's face I started deciding I'd better shake him down good first. I just didn't like his looks. Well, he came out of that car fighting mad. He didn't pull no gun, not at first, but he tried to knee me. I sort of twisted around that, but I caught the knee in my gut and it sort of knocked the wind out for a second. But I rapped him across the elbow with my club, and I was down on one knee there, and the next thing I know I'm looking up the barrel of a gun. I don't know why it didn't tear my face off. He was so close when he fired that I got powder burns, and the Doc is still a little worried about my eyes — but believe it or not, he missed me. I heard the bullet sing past my ear, but I guess I still thought I was hit. I couldn't see much and there was a lot of pain in my face. Well, I went down . . . holding my face in my hands. Then I realized right away I wasn't really hurt and I came right back up again. The guy was running across the street. I saw him going around the corner into Lodetown and I ran after him. I saw him disappear into the old Brown's Mercantile, an empty store there. He was with those other people, those book people. I'd just been talking to them a couple of hours earlier, and they'd seemed like all right guys. Well, I was running on over to headquarters to get some reinforcements when I bumped into Gene Perkins, one of our patrolmen. Gene was off duty and downtown with his wife, doing some shopping. He sent me on to headquarters and he tore off for Brown's Mercantile. Headquarters was deserted when I got there. It took me a minute or two to raise the Chief on the radio. And then I guess I passed out. The Doc says I got a light concussion out of that blast in the face."
The narrative continues, as picked up by Patrolman Gene Perkins: "I saw this big black car easing out of the alley behind Brown's just as I was arriving at the scene. I was on foot and I wasn't in uniform, but I always carry a gun. I have a special off-duty revolver I carry m a swingout holster under my jacket. My wife always used to rag me about wearing that gun around — you know, she called me Joe Friday — but a police officer is always on duty, he's never really off. Well, I stepped out in the street with my gun drawn, and I signal for this car to stop. Instead of stopping, he throws into reverse and scoots back inside the alley. I see two men in the front seat, and I think one or two were in the back. I fire a shot in the air and yell for them to halt. I'm running toward the alley, see, and just about the time I get there, they're coming out again, fast this time, and I hear it even before I see it, so I know what's coming. I jump the curb and whirl up against the side of Al's Bar and Grill — I'm standing maybe ten feet from the alley when they come busting out. I put a shot right through the wing vent window and I have to say, the guy has quick reflexes. He stands that big job on its nose, he's not even completely clear of the alley yet, and he's in reverse and gunning backwards again. Meanwhile I'm flat on my belly and getting as small as possible — these guys are returning my fire!
"Soon as they're out of sight again, I'm scrambling to my feet and I'm peering around the corner of the building. They're already halfway to the other end of the alley, and wouldn't luck have it, there's a beer truck down behind Molly's Joint, blocking the alley. They're sealed in, see. This one gunman jumps out of the back seat and he's yelling at the guy unloading the beer truck. The beer driver is ignoring him and going on about his business. I pump a shot through their grill just to keep the pressure on. Then this guy that was doing all the yelling is back there clubbing the truck driver with his gun. I see it, plain as day, from less than half a block away. The one with the gun is climbing up into the cab of the truck. I'm getting plenty of return fire, don't worry about that. Those guys have a chopper down there, and they're using it, so I'm forced to shoot with my left hand around the corner of the building, so I'm not exposing myself. I never tried lefthanded firing before — call it a lucky shot with that little snubnose .32 — but I drilled that hood as he was standing behind the wheel of the beer truck. He falls back into the alley. Then another piece of luck came my way. Or don't call it luck, call it civic spirit and supporting your policemen. Old John Trappolino, lives down on the south side, retired bricklayer, I think, comes into Lodetown every day about that time for a quiet glass of beer and a couple of games of shufflebowl at Al's place. Usually parks right there on Second Street, at the side of Al's. I guess John saw what was going on. Anyway, all of a sudden here he comes in that little Rambler of his, just easing along in low gear, his door open. I see John stepping out of the car and it's still moving, like he was a teen-ager, that nimble you know. The Rambler jumps the curb right behind me and heads into that alley at an angle and it hits the wall of the Village Bakery and dies there, angled into the alley and corking it good.
"Well, these guys in the black car aren't going to be going anywhere for now, for sure. They abandon the car and they're scampering through the back entrance of Brown's Mercantile when I hear the sirens tearing toward Lodetown. I guessed that Arthur, the other patrolman, was sending me some help. I can tell you with no feeling of shame at all that I was damn glad to hear them coming. I'm running for Main Street now, and people are all out in the street trying to see what's happening. This hampers me a little, but I still round ,the corner just as the front door to Brown's opens and a guy pokes his head out. I throw a shot at him. It misses, but takes out the window behind him and this serves the purpose. He thinks they're covered front and back, see, and he dodges back inside the store, and I'd have given a nickel for their thoughts about that time. Then the Chief and the Hardcase cops arrive, and we've really got them sealed in there now. They died hard, though. I wouldn't want to die that way."
October 5th was the day that Lodetown burned to the ground, every building on the four blocks around the square being leveled in a spectacular fire that was immediately beyond the control of the small fire department. It is known that the blaze originated in the interior of an ancient structure which had originally housed a general store known as Brown's Mercantile Company, and which had been short-term rented only that morning to a Mafia cadre posing as book salesmen. It was suspected that the fire had been deliberate set by the three unidentified underworld figures who bad taken refuge in the building, possibly intended to create confusion and thus provide a diversion for their escape. If this was the intent, then the plan backfired on its perpetrators. Their charred bodies, burned beyond any possibility of identification, were found near the rear door of the building.
At the height of the fire, another shootout occurred between police and "two carloads of gunmen" in the street adjoining Lodetown. The running battle erupted when Captain Tim Braddock spotted the two vehicles cruising "in obvious curiosity" past the scene of the conflagration. Braddock identified one of the occupants as Lou "Screwy Looey" Pena, a long-suspected Mafia "enforcer" in the DiGeorge Family. Three of Braddock's officers were found wounded in this encounter, one seriously, and an innocent bystander, a familiar Lodetown figure known only as Indian Joe, was caught in the crossfire and killed. The two vehicles made good their escape, aided by the confusion attending the fire, and were later found abandoned in another section of the city. Dried blood was found in both automobiles, indicating that some of the police bullets had found their marks.
All in all, the full toll of the Battle at Palm Village was a fearful one: 32 commercial buildings, old but still functional and housing thriving businesses were destroyed, 26 private automobiles were burned to a total loss. Surprisingly, there were no human casualties of the fire, other than those previously noted. But Lodetown, a quaint if somewhat bawdy reminiscence of the Old West, suddenly ceased to be. The "balance" of Genghis Conn's town had been overturned. Upon the site of Lodetown would arise a modern business complex with no room for lonely farmhands and their naughty companions of the night. A new tax structure would necessarily emerge from the transformation; the Palm Village police force would become updated, more responsible, less "peaceful."
Staring solemnly at the ashes of Lodetown some hours later, Genghis Corm confided to Doctor Jim Brantzen: "It had to happen, Doc. Your friend was the catalyst this town needed . . . and that I needed. I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry for all the loss of life and property, but . . . at the same time . . . I'm not sorry. If you ever see that friend of yours again, tell 'im that Genghis Conn has no regrets."
"I'll tell him that . . . if I ever see him again," the surgeon replied.
Big Tim Braddock, returning to Los Angeles with his junior officer, Carl Lyons, offered a contrasting view. "You can see what a disaster this Mack Bolan is, Sergeant," he growled. "I hope I never again hear any Pollyannish nonsense out of you concerning the virtues and social values of this feud of his. He brings out the worst in everything he touches. We've got to get that guy! We've got to get him before he sends, the whole damn state sliding into the sea!"
"It's a damn shame," Lyons replied faintly.
"What?"
"I said it's a damn shame," the Sergeant repeated; his voice growing stronger. "It's a shame that Bolan has to take the rap for all of our mistakes."
"Whose mistakes?" Braddock said angrily.
"Ours. All of us. You and me and John and Jane and all of us straight citizens. Bolan's no disaster, Cap'n, no more than a compass is the North Pole. You can fire me if it'll give you any comfort, but if you and I were good enough cops . . . then there wouldn't be any Bolan. Bolan's no disaster, Cap'n. He's an indictment. He's indicting you and me and society at large, for malfeasance and gross . . ."
"That's enough of that!" Big Tim roared.
"Not even nearly," Lyons quietly replied.
They drove in silence for a moment, then Braddock said, "You're out, Carl. I guess I can't blame you for your own personal feelings. I mean, I guess I can understand. But those feelings disqualify you for Hardcase. I'll turn in your release tonight."
"Thanks," Lyons said. "But it's probably an unnecessary formality. Somehow I feel that we'll never see Bolan again."
"How's that?" the Captain asked.
"I don't know." Lyons sighed heavily. "I just feel that we've witnessed the end of an era. I think Hardcase is dead by default."
Braddock shifted his weight uncomfortably, reached for a cigarette, and growled, "Over my dead body, buddy. I'll see that bastard behind bars or I'll turn in my badge."
"Hope you'll enjoy your retirement," Lyons muttered.
"What?"
Lyons slumped over the wheel of the speeding vehicle and peered doggedly ahead. "I was just thinking out loud," he said. "I still think this is the end of an era."
"We'll see about that," Braddock said.
Sgt. Lyons was partially correct. The Palm Village episode did mark a turning point for the Executioner. But it was a turn into eclipse, not into extinction. Mack Bolan, behind his mask, was about to enter the most menacing and suspenseful stage of his adventures against the Mafia. He had decided to "get inside" Julian DiGeorge's Western family . . . and the Executioner's mask was going to put him there.
Chapter Ten
The Lambretta mask
Ten days had elapsed since the fracas at Palm Village and still Lou Pena had not returned to the Palm Springs estate of Julian DiGeorge. A brief message had come back on the evening of October 5th carried by a painfully wounded Willie Walker: "Lou says to tell you he'll be back when he's got Bolan's head in a sack."
DiGeorge promptly doubled his palace guard and spent several days in cautious seclusion. On October 10th, he summoned the convalescing Walker to his chambers and questioned him again concerning the events at Palm Village.
"Maybe the guy is dead," DiGeorge commented at the conclusion of the interview, alluding to Mack Bolan. "Maybe one of those unidentified bodies was his. Maybe the cops are playing it cozy, trying to keep the heat on us."
"I don't know about that," Willie Walker told DiGeorge, "From what I could make out, Bolan wasn't even in that town. We found Julio's car, like I said, but the way I make it Bolan just dumped the car there and stole another one on his way out. It don't make sense that he would dump the car and then hang around waiting for us to find it."
"Don't try to figure Bolan," DiGeorge warned his triggerman. "He likes to think he's tricky, so don't try to say what he would do and what he wouldn't do. You know the town, Willie. Soon as you're up and around good, I want you to take a few boys over there and give everything another quiet look-see. Plan it any way you want, but get some questions answered. If Bolan is dead, I damn sure want to know it. You understand?"
"I understand, Deej," Willie Walker assured the Capo.
During the following few days, DiGeorge had begun to relax somewhat. He went to Acapulco in his private plane on October 12th, combining a pleasant holiday with an urgent business conference which had been hurriedly requested by a Mexican associate. The discussion centered around the new U.S. border crackdown on narcotics traffic, and ways of circumventing this crippling interference with the multi-million dollar business. Returning by way of San Diego, he conferred there briefly with Anthony "Tony Danger" Cupaletto, Caporegime of the California border territory, to pass on the new strategy for the acquisition of Mexican heroin and marijuana.
When Cupaletto tactfully questioned DiGeorge regarding the status of Mack Bolan, the Mafia boss expressed the conviction that the last had been seen of "big bad Bolan." He suggested that Tony Danger "worry more about the Border Patrol and less about fancy ghosts."
"You just get the business communities to screaming about their lost bucks," DiGeorge added. "The Feds think they're pressuring us . . . you show them what real pressure is. Morales is working the other side of the border. You link up on this side and get the straight businessmen to howling about this harassment of border traffic. In the meantime, we'll rely on the boats to get the stuff in?"
The Family was going on with business as usual. As he returned to Palm Springs, DiGeorge's mind was busy with the problem of succession to the Number Two, or "underboss" spot which had been vacant since Bolan's execution of Emilio Giordano in September. Tony Danger was not even a candidate in DiGeorge's thinking. Bolan had executed the most promising lieutenants of the hierarchy. DiGeorge realized that a decision would have to be made quickly to avoid the possibility of ambitious intrigues among his underlings. Rank in the Cosa Nostra meant much more than mere position and prestige; it represented raw power and pyramiding fortunes in what some federal officials were already beginning to refer to as "the invisible second government of the nation."
Bolan's traumatic punches at the organization had produced a more far-reaching effect, DiGeorge knew, than probably Bolan himself even realized. Normal attrition through an occasional death or arrest within the ranks had never posed too much of a problem for the strongly organized and formally administered combine. Intra-family disputes and "licenses" came under the exclusive jurisdiction of that family's Capo; he was a boss whose slightest whim was enforced by a life-or-death disciplinary code. DiGeorge could not remember a time since the Maranzano-Genovese wars of the thirties when there had been such a high attrition rate within a Cosa Nostra family. Thanks to Bolan, the hierarchy of DiGeorge's family was now a shambles.
Things were bad even at the crew level. DiGeorge smiled wryly, thinking of Screwy Looey Pena as his Chief Enforcer. Screwy Looey had been a good soldier. DiGeorge had no doubt that he would forever be a good soldier, loyal to the death, but he simply did not have the stuff for rank. Where would DiGeorge go to fill his vacancies? The families had been closed to new members for years and there was a notable absence of young new blood in the organization. Oh, there were young employees, sure, but hell, you couldn't give an employee rank. DiGeorge filed a mental note to raise the issue with the Commissione, the national Cosa Nostra ruling council, at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he would have to wrestle alone with the problems of succession.
DiGeorge's reception at Palm Springs on October 15th reflected the tenor of the times. Six vehicles, including an armor-plated Cadillac, awaited him at the private hangar. The reception committee numbered 26, but was headed by a long-haired "soldier" known as Little John Zarecky. Obviously nervous and awed by the great man's presence, Zarecky stammeringly reported to DiGeorge that Pena had not been heard from and that Willie Walker had departed "with a crew" two days previously. This left the palace guard without a ranking commander; Little John had been left in charge. DiGeorge immediately passed the mantle of authority to Philip "Honey" Marasco, a 42-year-old bodyguard who had accompanied him on the Mexican trip. Thus it was that DiGeorge had no one to bring him up to date on the happenings at home as the motorcade wended its way to the sprawling Palm Springs villa, and thus it was that Julian DiGeorge had no inkling of the existence of the man called Frank Lambretta until the startling confrontation on DiGeorge's poolside patio.
The pool and patio occupied a "private" area of the villa, a preserve stormily demanded some time earlier by DiGeorge's widowed daughter, Andrea DiGeorge D'Agosta, who strongly resented the presence of "hoods and goons" in the family home. Andrea, who had been ignorant of her father's underworld connections until the Bolan adventures, was also nurturing an ill-concealed resentment of DiGeorge himself, and the two had been all but estranged during the weeks since DiGeorge's exposure as a Cosa Nostra boss.
DiGeorge was not particularly surprised to find Andrea at the pool. Indeed, she had been spending most of her daylight hours there since the incident at Beverly Hills — "mooning around," as DiGeorge put it, "and wishing we could get the spilt wine back in the broken bottle." What did surprise and shock him was the inescapable fact that his daughter was technically naked and that, moreover, she was entertaining a strange man who was in about the same state of undress.
"You slut you!" was DiGeorge's homecoming salutation to his daughter.
The man in the case was clad only in a pair of wet jockey shorts. He was lying face up on a sunning board. Andrea, wearing only the scanty bottom half of a bikini, was lying atop the man in a tight embrace. She raised her face to her father and said, "Poppa! Turn your head!"
"I'll turn your head right offa your shoulder!" DiGeorge howled. "Get up offa there and get your clothes on!"
In a voice choked with embarassment and anger, the girl insisted, "I'm not moving until you turn your head!"
"Yeah, that's right," the unhappy father roared. "You'll show your bottom to any two-bit bum that happens past, but your Poppa's gotta turn his head!" He had already turned away, however, rocking angrily on the balls of his feet and squeezing his hands together in frustrated rage. "Who's the bum?" he yelled.
Andrea's voice was shaking as she replied, "I'm not talking to you, Poppa, until you calm down. And Frank is not a bum. We're going to be married, in fact, and . . . and . . ." She lost her voice completely and was having trouble hooking herself into the bikini top. A small girl, just over five feet tall and weighing hardly a hundred pounds, she made up in quality of what she lost in quantity, with all the planes and angles which have made Italian beauties the sex symbols of the world.
Her "partner in crime," as she laughingly referred to him later, exhibited no reaction to her "we're going to be married" line. He rolled easily off the sunning board and pulled on a pair of white Levi slacks, smiled faintly at the girl, then went over to the brooding figure of her father.
"I'm Frank Lambretta, Mr. DiGeorge," he quietly announced.
DiGeorge inspected him through veiled eyes. He saw a tall man, lithe, muscular, maybe 30 or 35, a bit too damn good-looking. A playboy, maybe. The Springs were full of them. DiGeorge felt cheapened by his daughter's indiscretion. He let go a disgusted snort and delivered a stinging backhand slap to the man's face. The tall man obviously saw the blow coming but he stood and received without flinching. A four-finger imprint showed a pale contrast to the smooth flesh surrounding it; a muscle bunched in the jaw and a nerve rippled the flesh beneath the eye.
"I guess you figure I had that coming," the man said. He spoke slowly, obviously laboring for self-control. "But that was your first and last free swing. Be advised."
"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge muttered, "I'm scared to death with your advice."
The girl had succeeded in covering her heaving bosom and was marching toward her father with fire in her eyes. "You're a nut, a nut!" she cried. "You go all holy over an innocent thing like this while all the time you're standing there a murderer, and a thief, and a . . ."
Grunting with rage, DiGeorge had been pushed too far and had let loose another slap, this one aimed at his daughter. She, too, saw it coming and ducked back, cutting off her accusations with an alarmed yelp, but the man called Lambretta had reacted even faster. His hand shot out and imprisoned the infuriated DiGeorge's wrist, abruptly arresting the swing and holding the stiffened hand like a vibrating leaf directly in front of DiGeorge's eyes.
The two men glared into each other's eyes for a tense moment, the silence of the struggle unbroken until Lambretta whispered, "Give the kid a break, Deej."
"I'll give her a broken head," DiGeorge hissed.
"Call it all my fault," Lambretta suggested in a barely audible voice, still gripping the other's wrist. "I pressured her into it. Now let it go at that."
"You let go my wrist!"
"If I do, and if you go for the kid, Deej, I'll drop you in the pool. Now stop being old-country." Lambretta released his grip and moved a pace backwards, smiling faintly at the outraged father.
"Do you know just who you're talking to, punk?" DiGeorge snarled.
Lambretta jerked his head in a curt nod. "Yes, I know who I'm talking to. And it still goes. If I have to dunk you to cool you off, then get ready for a swim, Deej."
Suddenly aware that he had been repeatedly called "Deej" by the brash interloper, DiGeorge stared at his tormentor more closely and asked, "Where do you get off calling me Deej? What'd you say your name is?"
Andrea began giggling in the sudden letdown of dangerous tensions. DiGeorge threw her an angry glare, then stomped his foot and opened his arms to her. "Aw, come on, come on," he said forgivingly.
The girl stepped into his arms and began crying on his shoulder. The tall man returned to the sunning board, sat down, and snared a pack of Pall Mall, from the flagstones. He lit a cigarette and got into socks and shoes. DiGeorge and the girl approached the sunning board, arms linked, smiling at each other self-consciously.
"Maybe it takes something like this to break up an iceberg," DiGeorge was saying to his daughter. "It's been weeks since you'n me were pals." He nudged Lambretta with his toe and said, "So whoever said it was any fun being a young widow, eh? When's the wedding? How long you two been making it big like this, eh?"
Andrea said hurriedly, "We haven't set the date, Poppa."
"You better set it," DiGeorge said humorously, ". . . from the looks of things when I walked up."
Lambretta smiled around his cigarette and rose to his feet. He put on his shirt, then extended an open hand to the older man. "Friends?" he said simply.
"Hey, a handshake for the future father-in-law?" DiGeorge protested. He bypassed the hand, grasped Lambretta's arms, and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek.
Andrea giggled, said, "I'd better get dressed," and raced toward the door.
DiGeorge watched her out of sight, then his smile faded and he stepped quickly away from the other man, inspecting him with a suddenly critical eye. "You better be able to stand a close investigation, Mister hopeful son-in-law," he said ominously.
Mack Bolan smiled through his Lambretta mask and said, "You can get as close as you like, Dad ."
DiGeorge promptly doubled his palace guard and spent several days in cautious seclusion. On October 10th, he summoned the convalescing Walker to his chambers and questioned him again concerning the events at Palm Village.
"Maybe the guy is dead," DiGeorge commented at the conclusion of the interview, alluding to Mack Bolan. "Maybe one of those unidentified bodies was his. Maybe the cops are playing it cozy, trying to keep the heat on us."
"I don't know about that," Willie Walker told DiGeorge, "From what I could make out, Bolan wasn't even in that town. We found Julio's car, like I said, but the way I make it Bolan just dumped the car there and stole another one on his way out. It don't make sense that he would dump the car and then hang around waiting for us to find it."
"Don't try to figure Bolan," DiGeorge warned his triggerman. "He likes to think he's tricky, so don't try to say what he would do and what he wouldn't do. You know the town, Willie. Soon as you're up and around good, I want you to take a few boys over there and give everything another quiet look-see. Plan it any way you want, but get some questions answered. If Bolan is dead, I damn sure want to know it. You understand?"
"I understand, Deej," Willie Walker assured the Capo.
During the following few days, DiGeorge had begun to relax somewhat. He went to Acapulco in his private plane on October 12th, combining a pleasant holiday with an urgent business conference which had been hurriedly requested by a Mexican associate. The discussion centered around the new U.S. border crackdown on narcotics traffic, and ways of circumventing this crippling interference with the multi-million dollar business. Returning by way of San Diego, he conferred there briefly with Anthony "Tony Danger" Cupaletto, Caporegime of the California border territory, to pass on the new strategy for the acquisition of Mexican heroin and marijuana.
When Cupaletto tactfully questioned DiGeorge regarding the status of Mack Bolan, the Mafia boss expressed the conviction that the last had been seen of "big bad Bolan." He suggested that Tony Danger "worry more about the Border Patrol and less about fancy ghosts."
"You just get the business communities to screaming about their lost bucks," DiGeorge added. "The Feds think they're pressuring us . . . you show them what real pressure is. Morales is working the other side of the border. You link up on this side and get the straight businessmen to howling about this harassment of border traffic. In the meantime, we'll rely on the boats to get the stuff in?"
The Family was going on with business as usual. As he returned to Palm Springs, DiGeorge's mind was busy with the problem of succession to the Number Two, or "underboss" spot which had been vacant since Bolan's execution of Emilio Giordano in September. Tony Danger was not even a candidate in DiGeorge's thinking. Bolan had executed the most promising lieutenants of the hierarchy. DiGeorge realized that a decision would have to be made quickly to avoid the possibility of ambitious intrigues among his underlings. Rank in the Cosa Nostra meant much more than mere position and prestige; it represented raw power and pyramiding fortunes in what some federal officials were already beginning to refer to as "the invisible second government of the nation."
Bolan's traumatic punches at the organization had produced a more far-reaching effect, DiGeorge knew, than probably Bolan himself even realized. Normal attrition through an occasional death or arrest within the ranks had never posed too much of a problem for the strongly organized and formally administered combine. Intra-family disputes and "licenses" came under the exclusive jurisdiction of that family's Capo; he was a boss whose slightest whim was enforced by a life-or-death disciplinary code. DiGeorge could not remember a time since the Maranzano-Genovese wars of the thirties when there had been such a high attrition rate within a Cosa Nostra family. Thanks to Bolan, the hierarchy of DiGeorge's family was now a shambles.
Things were bad even at the crew level. DiGeorge smiled wryly, thinking of Screwy Looey Pena as his Chief Enforcer. Screwy Looey had been a good soldier. DiGeorge had no doubt that he would forever be a good soldier, loyal to the death, but he simply did not have the stuff for rank. Where would DiGeorge go to fill his vacancies? The families had been closed to new members for years and there was a notable absence of young new blood in the organization. Oh, there were young employees, sure, but hell, you couldn't give an employee rank. DiGeorge filed a mental note to raise the issue with the Commissione, the national Cosa Nostra ruling council, at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he would have to wrestle alone with the problems of succession.
DiGeorge's reception at Palm Springs on October 15th reflected the tenor of the times. Six vehicles, including an armor-plated Cadillac, awaited him at the private hangar. The reception committee numbered 26, but was headed by a long-haired "soldier" known as Little John Zarecky. Obviously nervous and awed by the great man's presence, Zarecky stammeringly reported to DiGeorge that Pena had not been heard from and that Willie Walker had departed "with a crew" two days previously. This left the palace guard without a ranking commander; Little John had been left in charge. DiGeorge immediately passed the mantle of authority to Philip "Honey" Marasco, a 42-year-old bodyguard who had accompanied him on the Mexican trip. Thus it was that DiGeorge had no one to bring him up to date on the happenings at home as the motorcade wended its way to the sprawling Palm Springs villa, and thus it was that Julian DiGeorge had no inkling of the existence of the man called Frank Lambretta until the startling confrontation on DiGeorge's poolside patio.
The pool and patio occupied a "private" area of the villa, a preserve stormily demanded some time earlier by DiGeorge's widowed daughter, Andrea DiGeorge D'Agosta, who strongly resented the presence of "hoods and goons" in the family home. Andrea, who had been ignorant of her father's underworld connections until the Bolan adventures, was also nurturing an ill-concealed resentment of DiGeorge himself, and the two had been all but estranged during the weeks since DiGeorge's exposure as a Cosa Nostra boss.
DiGeorge was not particularly surprised to find Andrea at the pool. Indeed, she had been spending most of her daylight hours there since the incident at Beverly Hills — "mooning around," as DiGeorge put it, "and wishing we could get the spilt wine back in the broken bottle." What did surprise and shock him was the inescapable fact that his daughter was technically naked and that, moreover, she was entertaining a strange man who was in about the same state of undress.
"You slut you!" was DiGeorge's homecoming salutation to his daughter.
The man in the case was clad only in a pair of wet jockey shorts. He was lying face up on a sunning board. Andrea, wearing only the scanty bottom half of a bikini, was lying atop the man in a tight embrace. She raised her face to her father and said, "Poppa! Turn your head!"
"I'll turn your head right offa your shoulder!" DiGeorge howled. "Get up offa there and get your clothes on!"
In a voice choked with embarassment and anger, the girl insisted, "I'm not moving until you turn your head!"
"Yeah, that's right," the unhappy father roared. "You'll show your bottom to any two-bit bum that happens past, but your Poppa's gotta turn his head!" He had already turned away, however, rocking angrily on the balls of his feet and squeezing his hands together in frustrated rage. "Who's the bum?" he yelled.
Andrea's voice was shaking as she replied, "I'm not talking to you, Poppa, until you calm down. And Frank is not a bum. We're going to be married, in fact, and . . . and . . ." She lost her voice completely and was having trouble hooking herself into the bikini top. A small girl, just over five feet tall and weighing hardly a hundred pounds, she made up in quality of what she lost in quantity, with all the planes and angles which have made Italian beauties the sex symbols of the world.
Her "partner in crime," as she laughingly referred to him later, exhibited no reaction to her "we're going to be married" line. He rolled easily off the sunning board and pulled on a pair of white Levi slacks, smiled faintly at the girl, then went over to the brooding figure of her father.
"I'm Frank Lambretta, Mr. DiGeorge," he quietly announced.
DiGeorge inspected him through veiled eyes. He saw a tall man, lithe, muscular, maybe 30 or 35, a bit too damn good-looking. A playboy, maybe. The Springs were full of them. DiGeorge felt cheapened by his daughter's indiscretion. He let go a disgusted snort and delivered a stinging backhand slap to the man's face. The tall man obviously saw the blow coming but he stood and received without flinching. A four-finger imprint showed a pale contrast to the smooth flesh surrounding it; a muscle bunched in the jaw and a nerve rippled the flesh beneath the eye.
"I guess you figure I had that coming," the man said. He spoke slowly, obviously laboring for self-control. "But that was your first and last free swing. Be advised."
"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge muttered, "I'm scared to death with your advice."
The girl had succeeded in covering her heaving bosom and was marching toward her father with fire in her eyes. "You're a nut, a nut!" she cried. "You go all holy over an innocent thing like this while all the time you're standing there a murderer, and a thief, and a . . ."
Grunting with rage, DiGeorge had been pushed too far and had let loose another slap, this one aimed at his daughter. She, too, saw it coming and ducked back, cutting off her accusations with an alarmed yelp, but the man called Lambretta had reacted even faster. His hand shot out and imprisoned the infuriated DiGeorge's wrist, abruptly arresting the swing and holding the stiffened hand like a vibrating leaf directly in front of DiGeorge's eyes.
The two men glared into each other's eyes for a tense moment, the silence of the struggle unbroken until Lambretta whispered, "Give the kid a break, Deej."
"I'll give her a broken head," DiGeorge hissed.
"Call it all my fault," Lambretta suggested in a barely audible voice, still gripping the other's wrist. "I pressured her into it. Now let it go at that."
"You let go my wrist!"
"If I do, and if you go for the kid, Deej, I'll drop you in the pool. Now stop being old-country." Lambretta released his grip and moved a pace backwards, smiling faintly at the outraged father.
"Do you know just who you're talking to, punk?" DiGeorge snarled.
Lambretta jerked his head in a curt nod. "Yes, I know who I'm talking to. And it still goes. If I have to dunk you to cool you off, then get ready for a swim, Deej."
Suddenly aware that he had been repeatedly called "Deej" by the brash interloper, DiGeorge stared at his tormentor more closely and asked, "Where do you get off calling me Deej? What'd you say your name is?"
Andrea began giggling in the sudden letdown of dangerous tensions. DiGeorge threw her an angry glare, then stomped his foot and opened his arms to her. "Aw, come on, come on," he said forgivingly.
The girl stepped into his arms and began crying on his shoulder. The tall man returned to the sunning board, sat down, and snared a pack of Pall Mall, from the flagstones. He lit a cigarette and got into socks and shoes. DiGeorge and the girl approached the sunning board, arms linked, smiling at each other self-consciously.
"Maybe it takes something like this to break up an iceberg," DiGeorge was saying to his daughter. "It's been weeks since you'n me were pals." He nudged Lambretta with his toe and said, "So whoever said it was any fun being a young widow, eh? When's the wedding? How long you two been making it big like this, eh?"
Andrea said hurriedly, "We haven't set the date, Poppa."
"You better set it," DiGeorge said humorously, ". . . from the looks of things when I walked up."
Lambretta smiled around his cigarette and rose to his feet. He put on his shirt, then extended an open hand to the older man. "Friends?" he said simply.
"Hey, a handshake for the future father-in-law?" DiGeorge protested. He bypassed the hand, grasped Lambretta's arms, and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek.
Andrea giggled, said, "I'd better get dressed," and raced toward the door.
DiGeorge watched her out of sight, then his smile faded and he stepped quickly away from the other man, inspecting him with a suddenly critical eye. "You better be able to stand a close investigation, Mister hopeful son-in-law," he said ominously.
Mack Bolan smiled through his Lambretta mask and said, "You can get as close as you like, Dad ."
Chapter Eleven
The cover
In the curious old-world formality still found in Mafia circles, pride and respect could be considered as the basics of any human relationships in that society. Indeed, it was rare for even a Capo to openly insult the lowliest of his cadre; it was a serious offense, subject to trial before a kangaroo court, for any member to "lay hands" upon another in anger, and one of the charter rules was that a man's wife was inviolable by others of the organization. Mack Bolan was aware of this curious code of conduct-curious mainly because of its framework of crime and violence. He would not have deliberately chosen such a far-out introduction to Capo Julian DiGeorge, couched as it was in such strong overtones of disrespect and humiliation: one does not win Capos and influence Mafiosi by trampling all over their sensitivities, was Bolan's own assessment of his bold faux pas, but the thing had been done, could not be undone, and perhaps it would turn out to be the best of all possible introductions.
Andrea had changed quickly into colorfully appealing hiphuggers and tight nylon blouse, returning to the patio just as her father was leaving by another exit. She gazed shyly at the man she knew as Frank Lambretta and said, "Poor Poppa, I could have spared him that."
"I guess he'll live through it," Bolan said, smiling. "If I can, he can."
The girl laughed melodiously and carefully seated herself in a deck chair, her eyes remaining steady on Bolan. "I guess I do owe you an apology," she said. "And a note of thanks. I'm sorry I had to spring that marriage routine. I was just thinking of Poppa's feelings. If you . . ."
"It's okay," Bolan interrupted. "We can carry the gag along for a while if you'd like."
The girl soberly nodded he agreement. "I was about to say, if you wouldn't mind playing the charade for a while it would save me an awfully messy situation. Poppa is a bit old-worldly about such things."
Bolan showed her the winning Lambretta smile and said, "Can I pick you up for dinner?"
She was staring at him fixedly as she shook her head in a slow negative. "You're forgetting your family obligations," she told him in mock sobriety. "Poppa will be expecting you for dinner, here, so make it by eight, please, jacket and tie."
"Eight it is," he replied, grinning.
She abandoned the chair and went into his arms, lifting her lips in a breathless invitation. He accepted the offering. She sighed into his mouth then wriggled loose and nuzzled his throat. "The weather's pretty warm down here," she whispered. "Don't worry about dinner. Maybe we can go somewhere after."
Bolan patted her bottom, released her, and walked toward the exit DiGeorge had cleared moments earlier. He turned to wave a farewell but the girl was already disappearing around a corner. Bolan went on out, passing through a narrow archway and into the parking area at the side of the villa. A chunky man in a Palm Beach suit, whom Bolan had not seen during any of his frequent visits to the villa over the past several days, rounded a corner of the building, moving fast toward a parked car. The man did a double-take at Bolan and said, "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm sure you'll find that out without my help," Bolan replied pleasantly. He slid behind the wheel of a gleaming Mercedes, cranked the powerful engine, and spun out with a spray of gravel.
The man 'm the Palm Beach was still staring after him as he stopped for clearance through the gate, a mere formality in view of Bolan-Lambretta's now-familiar presence at the DiGeorge country estate.
Not until the villa was a half mile behind did Bolan readjust the mirror for an inspection of his face. He probed the tender tissues with careful fingers, wincing at contact with the area that had fallen under DiGeorge's stinging slap. It had required all his self-control to maintain a steady visage during that moment of incredible pain. He was hoping now that no interior damage had been done. Things were working out too well to have his face crumble on him. Yes . . . things were working out. He thought of Andrea, and knew a mixture of pleasure and regret. It had, of course, been a completely casual relationship . . . with no questions asked and none wanted. He had no reason to feel guilty about his opportunistic cultivation of the girl. She had been ready for a tumble . . . it could have been Bolan or anybody, so why not Bolan? He was using her, sure, but then she was using him also. This much was patently clear. She had wanted DiGeorge to find them in that compromising scene. She was using Bolan to strike back at her father, to hurt him. Okay. So Bolan was doing the same thing with her, and with the same target in view.
These thoughts carried him back to his hotel. He went directly to his room, showered, changed to a light suit, and buckled on his side harness with the snap-out revolver. Then he went down to the desk, nodded at the clerk, an ever-smiling and always immaculate man of about forty, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. "Who's been asking about me?" Bolan asked the clerk.
The clerk eyed the money, then raised a veiled gaze to his guest. "Has someone been asking you, Mr. Lambretta?" he asked drily.
"That's what the twenty wants to know."
"As a matter of fact . . . "The man drummed his fingers on the counter and smiled cautiously. ". . . A man was in here less than an hour ago who seemed to have an interest in you, Mr. Lambretta."
"What did you tell him?"
The clerk's eyes fell again to the twenty-dollar bill. He smiled and said, "Well, really . . . what is there to tell, Mr. Lambretta? You're registered here. You deal in cash, not credit cards. You're quiet, mind your own business, and . . ." He flashed Bolan a hopeless look.
"And I lay a hundred on the ponies every morning with my friendly local bookmaker," Bolan added.
The clerk's eyes darted to left and right but the smile did not leave his face. "Loose talk is not very sporting, Mr. Lambretta," he said nervously. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't speak so casually of such, uh, connections."
Bolan retrieved the twenty, leaned away from the desk and unbuttoned his coat, allowing it to stand open to reveal the snubbed .32 nestling there as he dug into his pocket and produced a money-clip. He returned the twenty to the clip, extracted a fifty, and dropped it in front of the clerk. The man's eyes shifted from the gun to the new bill lying on the counter. He nervously wet his lips and said, "I really don't see . . ."
"I don't want you to see anything," Bolan said pleasantly. "And I don't need to stand here playing games with my bankroll. I could just drag you across that desk and slap you silly. You think of that?"
Apparently the thought had crossed the clerk's mind. The words came then in a warmly conspiratorial stream. "The man just wanted to know who you were and what your connections are, Mr. Lambretta. I figured you had nothing to hide. I told him how long you'd been here and what a quiet, cultured man you seem to be. Oh, and I believe I told him that Mrs. D'Agosta had called for you here a time or two. Was I indiscreet? I hope not. Mrs. D'Agosta is such a fine young lady . . . certainly too young to be widowed. It's a shame, such a shame."
"And you told him about the ponies."
"Yes sir, I believe I did. Oh, but I'm sure it's quite all right. I have handled bets for this gentleman also."
"So who is he?"
The clerk's lower lip trembled. "A Mr. Marasco. I believe they call him Honey Marasco. Odd name for such a burly person, but that's . . ."
"And you told him about my mail?"
The clerk's face was becoming contorted with the evidence of an inner conflict becoming apparent. "I . . . uh . . . Marasco is connected with Julian DiGeorge, Mr. Lambretta. You're aware, certainly, that Mr. DiGeorge is Mrs. D'Agosta's father. So, all things considered, I saw no harm in . . . in . . ."
"You told him about my mail!"
"Yes sir. I told him that you had received letters from New Jersey and Florida. Was I violating a . . ."
Bolan said, "No, no, forget it," and pushed the fifty into the clerk's sweating palm. He was smiling as he crossed the lobby and went out the door. The cover was falling into place.
Andrea had changed quickly into colorfully appealing hiphuggers and tight nylon blouse, returning to the patio just as her father was leaving by another exit. She gazed shyly at the man she knew as Frank Lambretta and said, "Poor Poppa, I could have spared him that."
"I guess he'll live through it," Bolan said, smiling. "If I can, he can."
The girl laughed melodiously and carefully seated herself in a deck chair, her eyes remaining steady on Bolan. "I guess I do owe you an apology," she said. "And a note of thanks. I'm sorry I had to spring that marriage routine. I was just thinking of Poppa's feelings. If you . . ."
"It's okay," Bolan interrupted. "We can carry the gag along for a while if you'd like."
The girl soberly nodded he agreement. "I was about to say, if you wouldn't mind playing the charade for a while it would save me an awfully messy situation. Poppa is a bit old-worldly about such things."
Bolan showed her the winning Lambretta smile and said, "Can I pick you up for dinner?"
She was staring at him fixedly as she shook her head in a slow negative. "You're forgetting your family obligations," she told him in mock sobriety. "Poppa will be expecting you for dinner, here, so make it by eight, please, jacket and tie."
"Eight it is," he replied, grinning.
She abandoned the chair and went into his arms, lifting her lips in a breathless invitation. He accepted the offering. She sighed into his mouth then wriggled loose and nuzzled his throat. "The weather's pretty warm down here," she whispered. "Don't worry about dinner. Maybe we can go somewhere after."
Bolan patted her bottom, released her, and walked toward the exit DiGeorge had cleared moments earlier. He turned to wave a farewell but the girl was already disappearing around a corner. Bolan went on out, passing through a narrow archway and into the parking area at the side of the villa. A chunky man in a Palm Beach suit, whom Bolan had not seen during any of his frequent visits to the villa over the past several days, rounded a corner of the building, moving fast toward a parked car. The man did a double-take at Bolan and said, "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm sure you'll find that out without my help," Bolan replied pleasantly. He slid behind the wheel of a gleaming Mercedes, cranked the powerful engine, and spun out with a spray of gravel.
The man 'm the Palm Beach was still staring after him as he stopped for clearance through the gate, a mere formality in view of Bolan-Lambretta's now-familiar presence at the DiGeorge country estate.
Not until the villa was a half mile behind did Bolan readjust the mirror for an inspection of his face. He probed the tender tissues with careful fingers, wincing at contact with the area that had fallen under DiGeorge's stinging slap. It had required all his self-control to maintain a steady visage during that moment of incredible pain. He was hoping now that no interior damage had been done. Things were working out too well to have his face crumble on him. Yes . . . things were working out. He thought of Andrea, and knew a mixture of pleasure and regret. It had, of course, been a completely casual relationship . . . with no questions asked and none wanted. He had no reason to feel guilty about his opportunistic cultivation of the girl. She had been ready for a tumble . . . it could have been Bolan or anybody, so why not Bolan? He was using her, sure, but then she was using him also. This much was patently clear. She had wanted DiGeorge to find them in that compromising scene. She was using Bolan to strike back at her father, to hurt him. Okay. So Bolan was doing the same thing with her, and with the same target in view.
These thoughts carried him back to his hotel. He went directly to his room, showered, changed to a light suit, and buckled on his side harness with the snap-out revolver. Then he went down to the desk, nodded at the clerk, an ever-smiling and always immaculate man of about forty, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. "Who's been asking about me?" Bolan asked the clerk.
The clerk eyed the money, then raised a veiled gaze to his guest. "Has someone been asking you, Mr. Lambretta?" he asked drily.
"That's what the twenty wants to know."
"As a matter of fact . . . "The man drummed his fingers on the counter and smiled cautiously. ". . . A man was in here less than an hour ago who seemed to have an interest in you, Mr. Lambretta."
"What did you tell him?"
The clerk's eyes fell again to the twenty-dollar bill. He smiled and said, "Well, really . . . what is there to tell, Mr. Lambretta? You're registered here. You deal in cash, not credit cards. You're quiet, mind your own business, and . . ." He flashed Bolan a hopeless look.
"And I lay a hundred on the ponies every morning with my friendly local bookmaker," Bolan added.
The clerk's eyes darted to left and right but the smile did not leave his face. "Loose talk is not very sporting, Mr. Lambretta," he said nervously. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't speak so casually of such, uh, connections."
Bolan retrieved the twenty, leaned away from the desk and unbuttoned his coat, allowing it to stand open to reveal the snubbed .32 nestling there as he dug into his pocket and produced a money-clip. He returned the twenty to the clip, extracted a fifty, and dropped it in front of the clerk. The man's eyes shifted from the gun to the new bill lying on the counter. He nervously wet his lips and said, "I really don't see . . ."
"I don't want you to see anything," Bolan said pleasantly. "And I don't need to stand here playing games with my bankroll. I could just drag you across that desk and slap you silly. You think of that?"
Apparently the thought had crossed the clerk's mind. The words came then in a warmly conspiratorial stream. "The man just wanted to know who you were and what your connections are, Mr. Lambretta. I figured you had nothing to hide. I told him how long you'd been here and what a quiet, cultured man you seem to be. Oh, and I believe I told him that Mrs. D'Agosta had called for you here a time or two. Was I indiscreet? I hope not. Mrs. D'Agosta is such a fine young lady . . . certainly too young to be widowed. It's a shame, such a shame."
"And you told him about the ponies."
"Yes sir, I believe I did. Oh, but I'm sure it's quite all right. I have handled bets for this gentleman also."
"So who is he?"
The clerk's lower lip trembled. "A Mr. Marasco. I believe they call him Honey Marasco. Odd name for such a burly person, but that's . . ."
"And you told him about my mail?"
The clerk's face was becoming contorted with the evidence of an inner conflict becoming apparent. "I . . . uh . . . Marasco is connected with Julian DiGeorge, Mr. Lambretta. You're aware, certainly, that Mr. DiGeorge is Mrs. D'Agosta's father. So, all things considered, I saw no harm in . . . in . . ."
"You told him about my mail!"
"Yes sir. I told him that you had received letters from New Jersey and Florida. Was I violating a . . ."
Bolan said, "No, no, forget it," and pushed the fifty into the clerk's sweating palm. He was smiling as he crossed the lobby and went out the door. The cover was falling into place.
Chapter Twelve
Thin blood
"This guy is just a cheap hood, bambina," DiGeorge told his daughter. Though he despised the use of old-country phrases in general conversation, the bambina was an endearment he used whenever he wished to emphasize the intimate nature of a father-daughter relationship. Andrea understood this bit of family psychology and went along with it. The so-called generation gap was nowhere more evident than in the DiGeorge household. Mother and daughter had long ago lost all semblances of a common ground for unemotional conversation; indeed, Mama was rarely at home these days, preferring to spend most of her golden age on the Italian Riviera. Between father and daughter, bambina had become a sort of trace word, with a history reaching back to the aftermath of Andrea's first paddling at the age of three. So, bambina had become a place to bury the hatchet, or to gloss over ruffled sensitivities, or to smooth the way for an unpleasant bit of news, which DiGeorge obviously presumed that he was now delivering. "He don't even have any connections," the troubled father continued. "He's a free-lancer, a punk, a two-bit rodman and drifter who's for hire to the world at large. I hate to tell you this, but you got to be careful who you bring into the home, baby. A free-coaster like this could cause all sorts of trouble to your Poppa's business arrangements. Besides, a guy like this is just going to wind up with a bullet in the neck and a weeping widow, and he's liable to take someone with him. Now I'm not trying to say I should pick your friends, but . . . well . . . listen, bambina, you're in the know now, and you know how careful your Poppa has got to be."
"Where did you get all this information?" Andrea asked in a surprisingly casual tone.
"Hey, it's my business to know things."
"Yes, I realize that, Poppa," Andrea said patiently, "but your sources are off the track this time. Frank is a . . . a . . . well, I don't know how he makes his living and I don't even care. He's first class in my book and that's all I care to know." Her veils came down and she sank her hooks into the tenderest area of her father's psyche. "After all, where would I be now if Momma had asked you for a character reference 30 years ago?"
"Ah, ah, ah," DiGeorge groaned. He banged his elbow against the wall and worked his fingers into a series of fists. "You're not trying to be reasonable, bambina," he said. "You're just trying to make your Poppa feel like a heel. Okay, okay. I feel like one. But not because of anything I ever did to you or for you. So I've done some things I don't want to strut around and talk about — so any man can say the same. Times have changed now, the world has changed, and there ain't no room in it for two-bit rodmen anymore. Hey, you think your old man hasn't always had his wife and kid's best interests in mind? Huh? You think that?"
"You'd have cut Momma's throat and mine too at the first demand of your blood brothers, and you know that's true," Andrea replied dismally. "Even now you'd do it. 'Our thing' first, last, and always — isn't that the way it is, Poppa? Above family, above state, above God even, loyalty to 'this thing we have' — isn't that right, Poppa?"
Andrea had again struck a raw nerve. The color had drained from DiGeorge's face when his daughter spoke the phrase "our thing." He laughed nervously and said, "Hey, where are you getting this stuff? These fairy tales you been listening to, eh? Who's been telling my bambina these old-country fairy tales?"
"Where did you get all this information?" Andrea asked in a surprisingly casual tone.
"Hey, it's my business to know things."
"Yes, I realize that, Poppa," Andrea said patiently, "but your sources are off the track this time. Frank is a . . . a . . . well, I don't know how he makes his living and I don't even care. He's first class in my book and that's all I care to know." Her veils came down and she sank her hooks into the tenderest area of her father's psyche. "After all, where would I be now if Momma had asked you for a character reference 30 years ago?"
"Ah, ah, ah," DiGeorge groaned. He banged his elbow against the wall and worked his fingers into a series of fists. "You're not trying to be reasonable, bambina," he said. "You're just trying to make your Poppa feel like a heel. Okay, okay. I feel like one. But not because of anything I ever did to you or for you. So I've done some things I don't want to strut around and talk about — so any man can say the same. Times have changed now, the world has changed, and there ain't no room in it for two-bit rodmen anymore. Hey, you think your old man hasn't always had his wife and kid's best interests in mind? Huh? You think that?"
"You'd have cut Momma's throat and mine too at the first demand of your blood brothers, and you know that's true," Andrea replied dismally. "Even now you'd do it. 'Our thing' first, last, and always — isn't that the way it is, Poppa? Above family, above state, above God even, loyalty to 'this thing we have' — isn't that right, Poppa?"
Andrea had again struck a raw nerve. The color had drained from DiGeorge's face when his daughter spoke the phrase "our thing." He laughed nervously and said, "Hey, where are you getting this stuff? These fairy tales you been listening to, eh? Who's been telling my bambina these old-country fairy tales?"