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"They're not fairy tales, and they're not old-country," Andrea stated flatly. "The vintage is the late twenties or early thirties, and the origin is strictly New York, a long ways from the old country. The whole thing is common knowledge now, Poppa. I wouldn't be surprised if it isn't being taught in American History classes. So who're you trying to kid? You'd better get modem and get with it. The Mafia and the Cosa Nostra are one and the same, the whole world knows it, and you're up to your eyes in it, and I know who you are and what you are. So don't come around here giving me the bambina routine and trying to tell me that the daughter of a common hood is too good to become the wife of one. Like mother like daughter, Poppa. You're stuck with us both, so you may as well decide to make the most of it."
Julian DiGeorge was not angry. Nor even hurt, now. He was frightened, and saddened. "Okay, so you wanted to hurt the old man and you've hurt him," he said quietly. "Okay, I guess I don't blame you. And I guess I'm glad it's out in the open now, so I can see the claws coming before they scratch. You're a hundred percent right, bambina. Deej was a nothing until the brotherhood came along and made him a somebody. You're right. I got no fancy schooling like you did, and I didn't grow up with roasted pheasants for breakfast neither."
He raised his arms to shoulder level and gazed around the luxurious surroundings as though perhaps seeing them for the first time ever. "As for a place like this — when Deej was a kid, a place like this was strictly from fairy tales. Everything you got, remember this, you owe to this thing of ours. The Cosa Nostra, yeah, it gave you the clothes on your back and the food in your belly and yeah, your old man is loyal to a thing like this and if you had any sense, you,d be too instead of smart-mouthing it. And you better remember this smart-mouth, you ain't so wrong as to just be digging your Poppa with emptiness. What you said was right, about throats getting cut and such. It could happen to anybody, even to a Capo's bambina. Eh? You thought I'd deny it? Well, Deej is not denying it. If I was a Miss Smart Mouth, I think I'd be damn careful where my words were going and what they was saying about my Poppa's friends. Huh? Deej is big, sure, the biggest thing west of Phoenix, but not as big as God, bambina. When an order comes down from the top, it comes down, and a hit is a hit, and it don't ask whose daughter is this or whose wife is this."
DiGeorge got to his feet and stared at his daughter with forlorn eyes. "This is a rotten conversation for a father and his kid. There isn't going to be no more like this."
"No, Poppa, there won't be any more," Andrea replied quietly.
"You'll tell this Lambretta punk to get lost."
She sighed. "Yes, Poppa. He's coming to dinner. I'll tell him then."
"You want me to tell 'im?" DiGeorge asked gently.
"Yes. Yes, I guess so." Her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, the girl jumped to her feet and cried, "I'm sorry, Poppa," and ran out of the room.
"I'm sorry too, bambina," DiGeorge told the empty room. He picked up a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it against the far wall.
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Julian DiGeorge was not angry. Nor even hurt, now. He was frightened, and saddened. "Okay, so you wanted to hurt the old man and you've hurt him," he said quietly. "Okay, I guess I don't blame you. And I guess I'm glad it's out in the open now, so I can see the claws coming before they scratch. You're a hundred percent right, bambina. Deej was a nothing until the brotherhood came along and made him a somebody. You're right. I got no fancy schooling like you did, and I didn't grow up with roasted pheasants for breakfast neither."
He raised his arms to shoulder level and gazed around the luxurious surroundings as though perhaps seeing them for the first time ever. "As for a place like this — when Deej was a kid, a place like this was strictly from fairy tales. Everything you got, remember this, you owe to this thing of ours. The Cosa Nostra, yeah, it gave you the clothes on your back and the food in your belly and yeah, your old man is loyal to a thing like this and if you had any sense, you,d be too instead of smart-mouthing it. And you better remember this smart-mouth, you ain't so wrong as to just be digging your Poppa with emptiness. What you said was right, about throats getting cut and such. It could happen to anybody, even to a Capo's bambina. Eh? You thought I'd deny it? Well, Deej is not denying it. If I was a Miss Smart Mouth, I think I'd be damn careful where my words were going and what they was saying about my Poppa's friends. Huh? Deej is big, sure, the biggest thing west of Phoenix, but not as big as God, bambina. When an order comes down from the top, it comes down, and a hit is a hit, and it don't ask whose daughter is this or whose wife is this."
DiGeorge got to his feet and stared at his daughter with forlorn eyes. "This is a rotten conversation for a father and his kid. There isn't going to be no more like this."
"No, Poppa, there won't be any more," Andrea replied quietly.
"You'll tell this Lambretta punk to get lost."
She sighed. "Yes, Poppa. He's coming to dinner. I'll tell him then."
"You want me to tell 'im?" DiGeorge asked gently.
"Yes. Yes, I guess so." Her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, the girl jumped to her feet and cried, "I'm sorry, Poppa," and ran out of the room.
"I'm sorry too, bambina," DiGeorge told the empty room. He picked up a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it against the far wall.
Chapter Thirteen
Charisma
Bolan was shown into the DiGeorge library by a steely-eyed "butler" in formal attire which almost but not quite concealed a gun under the left arm. He was offered a drink, accepted a fancy tumbler of Scotch on the rocks, and was asked to make himself comfortable. He did so, dropping into a heavy leather lounge. A pedestal-type ashtray immediately appeared at his right elbow; the butler excused himself and departed. The lighting was dim and the dark panelling of the room seemed to cast ominous shadows across Bolan's view. His eyes were roving the bookshelves, seeing while not seeing the obviously never disturbed volumes reposing there. A chill trickled down his neck to the base of his spine; he was, he knew, being watched from some concealed observation post. He casually lit a cigarette then got to his feet and paced about the room gulping the Scotch on the move.
Bolan placed the empty glass on a desk, opened his coat, inspected his gunleather in an obvious manner, closed his coat, and paced some more. Presently the door opened and two men entered. One of them Bolan recognized as an obscure palace guard, a smooth-faced youngster who could have just stepped off an Ivy League campus. The other was a very light-stepping heavyweight with a ground-beef face, massive shoulders, and ridiculously small feet. It was the same man Bolan had encountered earlier in the parking lot. The youth halted just inside the doorway and allowed Bolan to see his .38-the older man stood an arm's reach from Bolan's gun hand.
"You forgot to check your hardware," said little-feet, pleasantly enough.
"I like to know who I'm checking it with," Bolan replied stiffly.
"The name's Marasco," the heavyweight solemnly told him.
Bolan nodded. "Okay," he said. His hand moved slowly to the coatfront.
Marasco said quickly, "Not that way. Lean over, both hands on the desk."
"Huh-uh," Bolan replied, grinning. His eyes flashed in a quick round trip to the youth at the door. "I don't turn my back to no rodman."
"Slow and easy, then," Marasco said, almost smiling. "Lay it on the desk."
Bolan complied with the instructions. Marasco stepped forward, took the pistol, and casually dropped it into his coat pocket. "You can pick it up at the gate on your way out," he said lightly. He took one step toward the door, then paused and turned back to Bolan as though in an afterthought. "Your name Lambretta?"
Bolan nodded a silent affirmation.
"You connected with a Rocky Lambretta from Jersey City?"
"Rocky was a cousin," Bolan replied unemotionally. "He's been dead since '62."
Marasco jerked his head in an understanding nod, took another step toward the door, paused and turned back again. "Frankie, is it?"
Bolan grinned and said, "Why the twenty questions? You know my name."
"You ever work in Miami or Saint Pete?"
"You want me to sit down and write you out a life history?"
Marasco shrugged his shoulders and went on to the door. "Mr. DiGeorge will be down in a minute," he said. "Just make yourself at home."
"I was comfortable before you came in here," Bolan said sarcastically.
Marasco winked and made his exit. The youth grinned at Bolan and followed the heavier man out, pulling the door closed. Bolan kept his face expressionless and stared at the closed door for a long moment, then went over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He still felt eyes upon him, but had no fears that he could not behave in a convincing manner. He had grown up in an Italian neighborhood; as for understanding the enemy, his brief apprenticeship with the Sergio Frenchi family in the opening days of the Pittsfield adventure would prove of inestimable value in the days which lay ahead. Bolan continued to play the role, gulping the Scotch while restlessly pacing about the room. Five minutes later, Julian DiGeorge made his appearance.
Without preliminaries, he asked, "What're you doing in the Springs?"
Bolan said, "Look, to hell with it. It was just a gag I went along with. I never had no serious eyes on your kid. We had a few laughs and that was it. You walked in on us and I was just trying to save the kid some face. But enough's enough."
"Answer my question," DiGeorge demanded. His face had not changed expression.
"You already got the answers!" Bolan exploded.
"Why were you fooling around with my daughter?"
Bolan bugged his eyes and said, "You kidding? What man wouldn't go for . . ." He abruptly stopped talking, dug in his pocket for a cigarette, stuck it between his lips then pulled it away without lighting it. "Look, Deej, the girl's of age, she's a beauty, and she ain't exactly no Virgin Mary if you'll pardon the comparison. We met in the bar at my hotel, and we laughed around a little and we got to be friends. No one could be more surprised than me when I find out later whose kid she turns out to be. Her name's D'Agosta, you know, not DiGeorge anymore. Hell, I didn't know who she was. We only met three days ago."
DiGeorge's shoulders had tightened noticeably but his face remained impassive. "What brought you to the Springs?" he demanded quietly.
Bolan whipped a large, folded news clipping from his pocket and slapped it on the desk. "Need you really ask?" he said disgustedly.
DiGeorge stepped to the desk and picked up the clipping, unfolded it, glanced at it, then dropped it with a chuckle. "It figures," he said.
Bolan picked up his clipping, a news concerning the Executioner's Los Angeles exploits, a large close-up photo of Bolan's face dominating the item. "The word's that the contract is wide open," Bolan muttered past his Lambretta mask.
"And you thought you'd pick up a quick'n easy hundred thou," the Mafia boss said, still chuckling.
"I got it that you had a dugout here. I figured it was worth a play."
"Did you also get it that this Bolan punk is probably in Brazil by now? Or better yet, that he's dead and buried in a secret grave by the cops up at the Village?"
Bolan snorted and said, "He's right here in Palm Springs!"
DiGeorge's amused expression immediately evaporated. "Where did you get that?"
"We already tangled once." Bolan quickly unbuttoned his shirt, spread it wide, and displayed a quarter-inch-wide groove in the flesh just beneath his left armpit. "A .45 slug dug that trench, and it had the Executioner's brand on it."
"Don't say that word!" DiGeorge snapped.
"What word?"
"Don't call the punk by his pet name! Lemme see that scratch!"
"Scratch, hell," Bolan said. He adjusted the shirt to afford DiGeorge a better inspection of the wound.
DiGeorge clucked his tongue and said, "You were lucky, Franky. Another inch to the right, and you . . ." He let go the shirt and studied the wound with an academic air. "It's healing pretty good. What is it — about a week old?"
"About that," Bolan said. He rebuttoned the shirt and carefully tucked in the tails.
"Yeah, you were lucky," DiGeorge repeated. "Franky Lucky, that's a name that ought to stick. Not many guys walking around can talk about their gunfight with this Bolan. You sure that was him?"
A new air of respect had pervaded the previously strained atmosphere between the two men. Bolan recognized it immediately. "It was him all right," he replied. "We came up eyeball to eyeball down by Desert Junction last Tuesday night."
"That's only a half a mile from here," DiGeorge uneasily noted.
"Yeah. I was coming up to lay out this place. I guess he was too. We laid out each other instead."
"You hit 'im?" DiGeorge quickly asked.
"I don't think so. It came up too quick, too unexpected you know. We're side by side, at this stoplight, see. I see him, and he sees me seeing him, and then we're banging away at each other. There's lights coming down from your place. He whips his car around and takes off. I figure there'll be another time, and I don't want to go off on no running gun battle through the city. Besides, I'm hit, see."
"What kind of car was he in, Lucky?"
"Big job . . . Chrysler, I think."
"Uh huh." DiGeorge smacked his palms together and paced an erratic circle around the desk. "This was a week ago Tuesday night?"
"Yeah. But I'd take book he's still around."
DiGeorge raised a fist to his mouth and nibbled a heavy knuckle. "Maybe you hit 'im," he said. "Maybe that's why he's laying low."
"Maybe."
The conversation was interrupted by the noisy appearance of Andrea D'Agosta. She swept into the room with a small overnight bag dangling from one hand, viciously banged the door, and dropped the bag to the floor. "Did you tell the punk to get lost yet, Poppa?" she asked loudly.
"Not yet," DiGeorge growled, eyeing her unapprovingly. She wore a. glittering mini-sheath with thigh-revealing slits up each leg.
"Well, hurry up!" the girl commanded. "I'm getting lost with him, and I can't get out of this nuthouse fast enough." Her eyes rested on Bolan. "Come on, Frank, let's split."
"You're going nowhere," DiGeorge told her. "You're staying put!"
"Or you'll shoot me if I leave, and you'll cut my throat if I stay." She laughed shrilly and went over to put a hand on Bolan's arm. "How about that, Frank?" she giggled. "What do you think of a man who threatens his own daughter with a Mafia-style rubout? Isn't that the dying end?" From somewhere a small nickel-plated .22 had appeared in her hand. "Come on, Frank. I'll shoot our way out of this joint." She laughed even more shrilly and said, "Don't look so shocked, Poppa. It's in my blood, see. Like father, like daughter. I was born with a right to kill."
DiGeorge had the look of a man who could just lie down and die. Bolan twisted the little gun out of the girl's hand in almost the same motion as he hit her with the flat of his other hand. She staggered across the floor and sank to her knees, the angry red handprint standing out starkly from a bloodless background. "Well, for God's sake," she murmured in a dazed voice.
Bolan dropped the gun onto the desk, crossed to the girl, tenderly kissed the handprint on her cheek, and tossed her across his shoulder. "Where does she belong?" he quietly asked DiGeorge.
"First room up the stairs," DiGeorge mumbled woodenly. He followed Bolan to the hallway, where they were met by an obviously uncomfortable Honey Marasco.
"For God's sake," Andrea repeated weakly, her head and torso inverted down Bolan's back.
"Drunk as a skunk," Bolan told Marasco with a grin. He stepped around the bodyguard and started up the stairs.
DiGeorge headed up with him, then paused at the first step and turned back to Marasco. "Oh, this is Frank Lucky, Phil. He's coming with us. Right, Franky?"
"Right," Bolan replied without turning around. Lucky was right, he was thinking. Lucky that Julian DiGeorge could not tell the difference between a week-old and a two-week-old wound. Lucky that Bolan always seemed to be at the right spot at precisely the right time. And luckier than all, perhaps, for so much dissension in the DiGeorge household. He carried the girl into her room and gently placed her on the bed.
DiGeorge sat down beside her and said "Thanks, Franky. I'll stay with her awhile. We got some things to talk out, me'n her. You go on downstairs and get acquainted. And, later on, you'n me have some things to talk out."
"I'll be looking forward to that," the Executioner assured the Capo. And then Franky Lucky Bolan went downstairs and joined the family.
Bolan placed the empty glass on a desk, opened his coat, inspected his gunleather in an obvious manner, closed his coat, and paced some more. Presently the door opened and two men entered. One of them Bolan recognized as an obscure palace guard, a smooth-faced youngster who could have just stepped off an Ivy League campus. The other was a very light-stepping heavyweight with a ground-beef face, massive shoulders, and ridiculously small feet. It was the same man Bolan had encountered earlier in the parking lot. The youth halted just inside the doorway and allowed Bolan to see his .38-the older man stood an arm's reach from Bolan's gun hand.
"You forgot to check your hardware," said little-feet, pleasantly enough.
"I like to know who I'm checking it with," Bolan replied stiffly.
"The name's Marasco," the heavyweight solemnly told him.
Bolan nodded. "Okay," he said. His hand moved slowly to the coatfront.
Marasco said quickly, "Not that way. Lean over, both hands on the desk."
"Huh-uh," Bolan replied, grinning. His eyes flashed in a quick round trip to the youth at the door. "I don't turn my back to no rodman."
"Slow and easy, then," Marasco said, almost smiling. "Lay it on the desk."
Bolan complied with the instructions. Marasco stepped forward, took the pistol, and casually dropped it into his coat pocket. "You can pick it up at the gate on your way out," he said lightly. He took one step toward the door, then paused and turned back to Bolan as though in an afterthought. "Your name Lambretta?"
Bolan nodded a silent affirmation.
"You connected with a Rocky Lambretta from Jersey City?"
"Rocky was a cousin," Bolan replied unemotionally. "He's been dead since '62."
Marasco jerked his head in an understanding nod, took another step toward the door, paused and turned back again. "Frankie, is it?"
Bolan grinned and said, "Why the twenty questions? You know my name."
"You ever work in Miami or Saint Pete?"
"You want me to sit down and write you out a life history?"
Marasco shrugged his shoulders and went on to the door. "Mr. DiGeorge will be down in a minute," he said. "Just make yourself at home."
"I was comfortable before you came in here," Bolan said sarcastically.
Marasco winked and made his exit. The youth grinned at Bolan and followed the heavier man out, pulling the door closed. Bolan kept his face expressionless and stared at the closed door for a long moment, then went over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He still felt eyes upon him, but had no fears that he could not behave in a convincing manner. He had grown up in an Italian neighborhood; as for understanding the enemy, his brief apprenticeship with the Sergio Frenchi family in the opening days of the Pittsfield adventure would prove of inestimable value in the days which lay ahead. Bolan continued to play the role, gulping the Scotch while restlessly pacing about the room. Five minutes later, Julian DiGeorge made his appearance.
Without preliminaries, he asked, "What're you doing in the Springs?"
Bolan said, "Look, to hell with it. It was just a gag I went along with. I never had no serious eyes on your kid. We had a few laughs and that was it. You walked in on us and I was just trying to save the kid some face. But enough's enough."
"Answer my question," DiGeorge demanded. His face had not changed expression.
"You already got the answers!" Bolan exploded.
"Why were you fooling around with my daughter?"
Bolan bugged his eyes and said, "You kidding? What man wouldn't go for . . ." He abruptly stopped talking, dug in his pocket for a cigarette, stuck it between his lips then pulled it away without lighting it. "Look, Deej, the girl's of age, she's a beauty, and she ain't exactly no Virgin Mary if you'll pardon the comparison. We met in the bar at my hotel, and we laughed around a little and we got to be friends. No one could be more surprised than me when I find out later whose kid she turns out to be. Her name's D'Agosta, you know, not DiGeorge anymore. Hell, I didn't know who she was. We only met three days ago."
DiGeorge's shoulders had tightened noticeably but his face remained impassive. "What brought you to the Springs?" he demanded quietly.
Bolan whipped a large, folded news clipping from his pocket and slapped it on the desk. "Need you really ask?" he said disgustedly.
DiGeorge stepped to the desk and picked up the clipping, unfolded it, glanced at it, then dropped it with a chuckle. "It figures," he said.
Bolan picked up his clipping, a news concerning the Executioner's Los Angeles exploits, a large close-up photo of Bolan's face dominating the item. "The word's that the contract is wide open," Bolan muttered past his Lambretta mask.
"And you thought you'd pick up a quick'n easy hundred thou," the Mafia boss said, still chuckling.
"I got it that you had a dugout here. I figured it was worth a play."
"Did you also get it that this Bolan punk is probably in Brazil by now? Or better yet, that he's dead and buried in a secret grave by the cops up at the Village?"
Bolan snorted and said, "He's right here in Palm Springs!"
DiGeorge's amused expression immediately evaporated. "Where did you get that?"
"We already tangled once." Bolan quickly unbuttoned his shirt, spread it wide, and displayed a quarter-inch-wide groove in the flesh just beneath his left armpit. "A .45 slug dug that trench, and it had the Executioner's brand on it."
"Don't say that word!" DiGeorge snapped.
"What word?"
"Don't call the punk by his pet name! Lemme see that scratch!"
"Scratch, hell," Bolan said. He adjusted the shirt to afford DiGeorge a better inspection of the wound.
DiGeorge clucked his tongue and said, "You were lucky, Franky. Another inch to the right, and you . . ." He let go the shirt and studied the wound with an academic air. "It's healing pretty good. What is it — about a week old?"
"About that," Bolan said. He rebuttoned the shirt and carefully tucked in the tails.
"Yeah, you were lucky," DiGeorge repeated. "Franky Lucky, that's a name that ought to stick. Not many guys walking around can talk about their gunfight with this Bolan. You sure that was him?"
A new air of respect had pervaded the previously strained atmosphere between the two men. Bolan recognized it immediately. "It was him all right," he replied. "We came up eyeball to eyeball down by Desert Junction last Tuesday night."
"That's only a half a mile from here," DiGeorge uneasily noted.
"Yeah. I was coming up to lay out this place. I guess he was too. We laid out each other instead."
"You hit 'im?" DiGeorge quickly asked.
"I don't think so. It came up too quick, too unexpected you know. We're side by side, at this stoplight, see. I see him, and he sees me seeing him, and then we're banging away at each other. There's lights coming down from your place. He whips his car around and takes off. I figure there'll be another time, and I don't want to go off on no running gun battle through the city. Besides, I'm hit, see."
"What kind of car was he in, Lucky?"
"Big job . . . Chrysler, I think."
"Uh huh." DiGeorge smacked his palms together and paced an erratic circle around the desk. "This was a week ago Tuesday night?"
"Yeah. But I'd take book he's still around."
DiGeorge raised a fist to his mouth and nibbled a heavy knuckle. "Maybe you hit 'im," he said. "Maybe that's why he's laying low."
"Maybe."
The conversation was interrupted by the noisy appearance of Andrea D'Agosta. She swept into the room with a small overnight bag dangling from one hand, viciously banged the door, and dropped the bag to the floor. "Did you tell the punk to get lost yet, Poppa?" she asked loudly.
"Not yet," DiGeorge growled, eyeing her unapprovingly. She wore a. glittering mini-sheath with thigh-revealing slits up each leg.
"Well, hurry up!" the girl commanded. "I'm getting lost with him, and I can't get out of this nuthouse fast enough." Her eyes rested on Bolan. "Come on, Frank, let's split."
"You're going nowhere," DiGeorge told her. "You're staying put!"
"Or you'll shoot me if I leave, and you'll cut my throat if I stay." She laughed shrilly and went over to put a hand on Bolan's arm. "How about that, Frank?" she giggled. "What do you think of a man who threatens his own daughter with a Mafia-style rubout? Isn't that the dying end?" From somewhere a small nickel-plated .22 had appeared in her hand. "Come on, Frank. I'll shoot our way out of this joint." She laughed even more shrilly and said, "Don't look so shocked, Poppa. It's in my blood, see. Like father, like daughter. I was born with a right to kill."
DiGeorge had the look of a man who could just lie down and die. Bolan twisted the little gun out of the girl's hand in almost the same motion as he hit her with the flat of his other hand. She staggered across the floor and sank to her knees, the angry red handprint standing out starkly from a bloodless background. "Well, for God's sake," she murmured in a dazed voice.
Bolan dropped the gun onto the desk, crossed to the girl, tenderly kissed the handprint on her cheek, and tossed her across his shoulder. "Where does she belong?" he quietly asked DiGeorge.
"First room up the stairs," DiGeorge mumbled woodenly. He followed Bolan to the hallway, where they were met by an obviously uncomfortable Honey Marasco.
"For God's sake," Andrea repeated weakly, her head and torso inverted down Bolan's back.
"Drunk as a skunk," Bolan told Marasco with a grin. He stepped around the bodyguard and started up the stairs.
DiGeorge headed up with him, then paused at the first step and turned back to Marasco. "Oh, this is Frank Lucky, Phil. He's coming with us. Right, Franky?"
"Right," Bolan replied without turning around. Lucky was right, he was thinking. Lucky that Julian DiGeorge could not tell the difference between a week-old and a two-week-old wound. Lucky that Bolan always seemed to be at the right spot at precisely the right time. And luckier than all, perhaps, for so much dissension in the DiGeorge household. He carried the girl into her room and gently placed her on the bed.
DiGeorge sat down beside her and said "Thanks, Franky. I'll stay with her awhile. We got some things to talk out, me'n her. You go on downstairs and get acquainted. And, later on, you'n me have some things to talk out."
"I'll be looking forward to that," the Executioner assured the Capo. And then Franky Lucky Bolan went downstairs and joined the family.
Chapter Fourteen
The pointer
Carl Lyons, released from the Hardcase Detail upon his return from Palm Village, had immediately taken a ten-day vacation, most of which he spent with his wife and young son on a carefree motor trip along the Baja California peninsula. He had returned to duty on October 20th, tanned and rested and eagerly wondering about the nature of his new assignment. The life and fortunes of one Mack Bolan had been insistently tamped into the lower reaches of his mind. He hoped he could keep the maverick down there. Carl Lyons had always been a "good cop." He wanted to go on being one. He did not want Mack Bolan back inside his official life. With some perverse persistency of fate, however, Bolan was destined to get there again just the same.
The most interesting scuttlebutt in the bullrooms all had to do with the demise of Hardcase and the uncertain future of Big Tim Braddock. This information saddened Lyons; he had a great respect for the hard-boiled Detective Captain, if not outright affection. Lyons was, of course, in no small measure responsible for Braddock's failure to apprehend the Executioner. This was a sore point to his conscience and a constant irritant to his sense of duty and loyalty; still, Lyons continued his silent argument that even a cop's first duty was to his own sense of personal ethics. In this context of understanding, he had pursued the only course open to him in his handling of the Bolan case. Twice he had turned his back and allowed the Executioner to walk away from him. Braddock had never known of this treachery, of course, and Lyons himself simply could not regard his actions as treacherous. The life of one damn good man had hung in the balance, and even Big Tim Braddock and his ambitions had been outweighed on the scales of Lyons' ethics.
In every sense, then, Lyons was happy to be off Hardcase. He hoped never to see or hear of Mack Bolan again. He picked up his assignment, a nightwatch in Vice, and went up to check in with his new lieutenant. Lyons was welcomed to the squad, they chatted briefly, then the young Sergeant went into the bullroom with a stack of directives and memorandums which required his reading. At shortly past midnight, while still poring through the bulletins, his new partner, Patrolman Al Macintosh, informed Lyons that he was wanted on the telephone. "Switchboard says it's an eyes-call," Macintosh added.
"I don't know any Vice informants, Al," Lyons replied, glaring ruefully at the imposing pile of reading matter. "Why don't you take it."
"Guy asked for you personally, Carl," the Patrolman reported.
Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, "Sergeant Lyons here."
"This is long distance so let's keep it brief a muffled Voice responded. "I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they'd like to have."
"Why me?" Lyons asked. "Where'd you get my name?"
"Reliable source," the voice replied. "I can't be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?"
"I can try," Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. "Give me your name and number," Lyons requested, "and I'll get back with you as soon as possible."
"You know better than that," the caller said, chuckling. "Can I get you at this same number at five this morning"
"I'll try to arrange it," the Sergeant replied. "I can't promise anything."
"You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it's straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can't wait too long."
"Why don't you just unload it on me?" Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.
The caller hesitated shortly, then: "I don't think you want to get involved in this."
"I can pass along anything you have to the proper person," Lyons assured him.
"This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It's Mafia, Lyons, and it's big, damn big. I've got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It's too much for a telephone contact. And I don't want any middle men."
"I'll meet you someplace," Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.
"You're sure you want in this?"
"It's my job, Mister . . . Mister . . ."
"Why don't you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I'll call back at five to complete the set. Don't mess it up, now."
A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. "This isn't Bolan, is it?" he asked.
Without a pause the reply came, "Word has it that Bolan is dead."
"Oh?"
"I'll call at five."
"Let me see if I have this straight," Lyons said hurriedly. "Are you inside the Mafia, Pointer?"
"I sure am."
The connection was then broken. Macintosh replaced his instrument and quickly rejoined Lyons. "This could be the biggest thing since Valachi," the young Patrolman commented excitedly.
"I'm just glad you heard it," Lyons replied. He pushed aside the stack of reading matter and scraped his chair back. "Let's go tell the Lieutenant. Pointer said he was calling long distance. I wonder how long a distance. I wonder where he got my name. I wonder what the hell his angle is."
Wonders would never cease, as Sgt. Lyons was to discover shortly. A few hours later, Big Tim Braddock would draw his new assignment also The life and fortunes of Mack Bolan, who was very much alive and well in Palm Springs, were beginning a new weaving which would involve them all in a new and violent tapestry of terror.
At 7:30 on the morning of October 21st, a new and highly secret undercover detail was launched at the L.A. Hall of Justice. Code-named Pointer, the operation was the ultimate in inter-agency cooperation and was staffed by Carl Lyons and Al Macintosh of LAPD; Harold Brognola of the U.S. Department of Justice, Racketeering Investigative Group; Raymond Portoccesi of the Los Angeles FBI Office; and U.S. Treasury Narcotics Agents George Bruemeyer and Manuel de Laveirca.
Mack Bolan's Lambretta mask was opening the Mafia doors to the fresh air of law enforcement, and the Executioner's unrelenting war on the giant crime syndicate was entering a dramatic and suspenseful new phase. As the various threads of the weave began coming together, pain and terror and violence and wholesale slaughter would stalk that gray no man's landscape separating the just from the unjust, Mack Bolan's definition of hell.
The most interesting scuttlebutt in the bullrooms all had to do with the demise of Hardcase and the uncertain future of Big Tim Braddock. This information saddened Lyons; he had a great respect for the hard-boiled Detective Captain, if not outright affection. Lyons was, of course, in no small measure responsible for Braddock's failure to apprehend the Executioner. This was a sore point to his conscience and a constant irritant to his sense of duty and loyalty; still, Lyons continued his silent argument that even a cop's first duty was to his own sense of personal ethics. In this context of understanding, he had pursued the only course open to him in his handling of the Bolan case. Twice he had turned his back and allowed the Executioner to walk away from him. Braddock had never known of this treachery, of course, and Lyons himself simply could not regard his actions as treacherous. The life of one damn good man had hung in the balance, and even Big Tim Braddock and his ambitions had been outweighed on the scales of Lyons' ethics.
In every sense, then, Lyons was happy to be off Hardcase. He hoped never to see or hear of Mack Bolan again. He picked up his assignment, a nightwatch in Vice, and went up to check in with his new lieutenant. Lyons was welcomed to the squad, they chatted briefly, then the young Sergeant went into the bullroom with a stack of directives and memorandums which required his reading. At shortly past midnight, while still poring through the bulletins, his new partner, Patrolman Al Macintosh, informed Lyons that he was wanted on the telephone. "Switchboard says it's an eyes-call," Macintosh added.
"I don't know any Vice informants, Al," Lyons replied, glaring ruefully at the imposing pile of reading matter. "Why don't you take it."
"Guy asked for you personally, Carl," the Patrolman reported.
Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, "Sergeant Lyons here."
"This is long distance so let's keep it brief a muffled Voice responded. "I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they'd like to have."
"Why me?" Lyons asked. "Where'd you get my name?"
"Reliable source," the voice replied. "I can't be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?"
"I can try," Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. "Give me your name and number," Lyons requested, "and I'll get back with you as soon as possible."
"You know better than that," the caller said, chuckling. "Can I get you at this same number at five this morning"
"I'll try to arrange it," the Sergeant replied. "I can't promise anything."
"You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it's straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can't wait too long."
"Why don't you just unload it on me?" Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.
The caller hesitated shortly, then: "I don't think you want to get involved in this."
"I can pass along anything you have to the proper person," Lyons assured him.
"This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It's Mafia, Lyons, and it's big, damn big. I've got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It's too much for a telephone contact. And I don't want any middle men."
"I'll meet you someplace," Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.
"You're sure you want in this?"
"It's my job, Mister . . . Mister . . ."
"Why don't you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I'll call back at five to complete the set. Don't mess it up, now."
A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. "This isn't Bolan, is it?" he asked.
Without a pause the reply came, "Word has it that Bolan is dead."
"Oh?"
"I'll call at five."
"Let me see if I have this straight," Lyons said hurriedly. "Are you inside the Mafia, Pointer?"
"I sure am."
The connection was then broken. Macintosh replaced his instrument and quickly rejoined Lyons. "This could be the biggest thing since Valachi," the young Patrolman commented excitedly.
"I'm just glad you heard it," Lyons replied. He pushed aside the stack of reading matter and scraped his chair back. "Let's go tell the Lieutenant. Pointer said he was calling long distance. I wonder how long a distance. I wonder where he got my name. I wonder what the hell his angle is."
Wonders would never cease, as Sgt. Lyons was to discover shortly. A few hours later, Big Tim Braddock would draw his new assignment also The life and fortunes of Mack Bolan, who was very much alive and well in Palm Springs, were beginning a new weaving which would involve them all in a new and violent tapestry of terror.
At 7:30 on the morning of October 21st, a new and highly secret undercover detail was launched at the L.A. Hall of Justice. Code-named Pointer, the operation was the ultimate in inter-agency cooperation and was staffed by Carl Lyons and Al Macintosh of LAPD; Harold Brognola of the U.S. Department of Justice, Racketeering Investigative Group; Raymond Portoccesi of the Los Angeles FBI Office; and U.S. Treasury Narcotics Agents George Bruemeyer and Manuel de Laveirca.
Mack Bolan's Lambretta mask was opening the Mafia doors to the fresh air of law enforcement, and the Executioner's unrelenting war on the giant crime syndicate was entering a dramatic and suspenseful new phase. As the various threads of the weave began coming together, pain and terror and violence and wholesale slaughter would stalk that gray no man's landscape separating the just from the unjust, Mack Bolan's definition of hell.
Chapter Fifteen
Inquest
Willie Walker and his crew had returned some days earlier with a completely negative report concerning the status and whereabouts of both Mack Bolan and Lou Pena. "That town is clean as a whistle, Deej," Walker reported. "If they've got this Bolan buried up there, nobody knows it. We pumped everybody from the Mayor to the gravediggers. As for Screwy Looey, he ain't left no tracks nowhere. If you would ask me, I'll have to say it looks like Looey is layin' low. Or else this Bolan got to him and left 'im in a shallow grave somewhere."
Walker and his crew were returned to a red-alert status and diffused into Palm Springs environs in a quiet but continuous patrol operation. All important visitors arriving at the DiGeorge country estate, of which there had been an unusual number in recent days, were convoyed from and to the airport by strong security crews, and the villa itself was a veritable armed camp. Andrea D'Agosta was under virtual house-arrest and was rarely seen about the grounds; on occasional brief visits to the family swimming pool, she had been closely escorted by several watchful members of the palace guard.
Tensions had seemed to grow rather than to dissipate and by the 21st day of October, Julian DiGeorge's uneasiness had reached an intolerable level. He summoned Philip Honey Marasco to his chambers in the early afternoon and told the burly bodyguard, "I'm getting a nervous feeling about Screwy Looey. I wonder if you could find somebody to get in touch with him."
His face an impassive mask, Marasco replied, "Looey should know better than to worry you this way, Deej. He shouldn't make you go looking for him."
"You're thinking like me," DiGeorge said. "We know what's what, Phil. Screwy Looey is laying low on me."
"A guy shouldn't be afraid of his own family," Maraseo commented. "I think it's his pride, maybe. He told some of the boys he wasn't coming back without this Bolan's head."
"Somebody," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, "ought to put the word out that Screwy Looey had better get back home."
Marasco thoroughly understood the tone of this genteel conversation. To an outsider, DiGeorge's complaint might have sounded like nothing more than idle fretting. In the language of the Family, however, the message was as clear as a military command. Marasco jerked his head in a casual nod and replied, "I'll put the word out, Deej. Is there anything special you want said to Looey?"
DiGeorge studied his fingertips and said, "In this thing of ours, Philip Honey, we either stand together or we die alone."
Marasco briefly drummed his fingers on DiGeorge's desk, then said, "Yeah," and turned to leave.
"What are you making on Franky Lucky?" DiGeorge asked casually.
Emotion entered Marasco's features for the first time during the interview. He turned back to his boss with a heavy frown. "Everything checks, Deej, but hell, I just don't know. All the boys like 'im. He's tough and hard as a rock, but he don't go throwing his weight around. It ain't like he's trying to make up to everybody, you know . . . I mean, he don't step away from trouble, he just don't go looking for any. And the boys like 'im, I mean like they kind of look up to 'im, you know . . . But I just . . . don't . . ."
"Yeah. I know what you mean, Phil. Something bothers me, too, and I just can't finger it. You're sure his history checks out, eh?"
Marasco's frown deepened. "Yeah, it all checks. He don't leave many tracks, though. I guess he's been pretty much of a loner. But I finally got a line on a guy that knew 'im out in Jersey. The guy's in jail down in Florida, though."
"You know what to do about that," DiGeorge said quietly.
"Yeah. I already started the routine to spring 'im, but it does take some time, you know. Meanwhile I sent Victor Poppy down. He'll make the conversation and he ought to be back tomorrow sometime. Then maybe we'll know just how lucky this Franky Lucky really is."
"You know, I hope this boy checks out," DiGeorge said, sighing.
"So do I," Marasco replied.
"Meanwhile you watch 'im."
"Sure, Deej."
"We're going to have to open the family up some, you know. I'm going to take it up with the Commissione. And I'd like to sponsor this Franky Lucky. I just hope he checks out."
Marasco turned away again. He paused with a hand on the door and said, "He's got his own ideas. I'm letting him run around all he wants to outside. If this Bolan is still around, I'm betting Franky Lucky is the boy to come up with him."
"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge said tiredly. "And don't forget about Screwy Looey."
"I'll have the word out in ten minutes, Deej."
"You know what I want, Phil."
"I know what you want, Deej."
In such simple and seemingly casual terms were the preliminaries established for a Mafia murder contract. Screwy Looey Pena was behaving irrationally, to DiGeorge's thinking. Irrational behavior, went that thinking, was usually indicative of a guilty conscience. Capo Julian DiGeorge was intensely curious as to the reasons behind Lou Pena's continued avoidance of the family home. He would either have those reasons within the next 24 hours, or a murder contract, or both. Philip Honey Marasco, at that moment, knew precisely what his Capo wanted.
Thirty minutes later, no one at the DiGeorge villa knew precisely what anyone wanted. The electrifying news that rattled the family group arrived by way of a breathless "runner" who was brought to the villa in a chartered helicopter. The messenger, a "soldier" in Tony Danger's crew, received an immediate audience with the Capo and excitedly told him, "They busted us wide open, Mr. DiGeorge. I mean everywhere. They knocked . . ."
"Waitaminnit, waitaminnit!" DiGeorge growled. "They who?"
"Federals, I guess. They knocked over our warehouse in Chula Vista and picked off all the stuff, even the stuff under the floors. Tony Danger wasn't a block away, he just got away in time. He says to tell you the Mexicans picked up Morales just after he got off the stockpile shipment. He's try'na get word to the boats, but he ain't so sure it ain't too late for that."
DiGeorge passed a weary hand over his eyes and muttered, "What about the boats? What about 'em?"
"I don't know what about 'em, Mr. DiGeorge. Neither does Tony. That's what I meant. Tony don't know . . ."
"Tony don't know if his ass is on or off," DiGeorge snapped. "I mean how much of the stuff is on the boats?"
"Oh, well the whole stockpile, Mr. DiGeorge. That's what I . . ."
"Where is Tony Danger now?"
"He went down to the port to . . ."
"Then he's a damn dumb bastard!" DiGeorge growled. "If they know everything else, then they know about the port, too. He probably walked right into 'em, Okay. So we got a rat somewhere in the woodpile. You get in that whirlybird and get on back down to San Diego. If you find Tony Danger you tell him Deej says to kill everything, I mean all of it, everything stops. And you tell him that Deej personally wants the rat, so don't go taking nothing on himself. Now you go on. On your way out, tell Willie Walker and Philip Honey I want 'em in here right now."
Some minutes later, while the villa seethed with excitement, DiGeorge confided to Walker and Marasco. "I've just had this feeling. Something has been wrong, and I knew it. Now I guess I know what. I'm thinking about two names right now. You know the names I'm thinkin' of?"
"Screwy Looey," Marasco quietly replied.
"Franky Lucky," said Walker.
"Okay, but let's not jump too fast," DiGeorge cautioned them. His gaze fell speculatively on Marasco. "See if you can raise Victor Poppy and see if he's got any news for us. Let's see how lucky Franky Lucky is."
Marasco nodded his head solemnly and went to the telephone.
"Start the juice going," DiGeorge told Willie Walker. "Any place Screwy Looey could have lit down. Get into our connections uptown, gather up whatever crumbs you can find about this rumble, and see what can be put together."
Walker curtly nodded his head and departed. Marasco was direct-dialing an area code in Florida, reading the number from a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He completed the dialing and turned about to gaze at DiGeorge as the connection was being made. The conversation was brief, with Marasco doing most of the listening. Then he hung up and released an almost sad sigh.
"Okay," DiGeorge said impatiently, "what's the bad news?"
"Victor Poppy says this guy hasn't seen Frank Lucky in over five years. The guy says the last he heard, Franky Lucky had got drafted and got it in Vietnam."
"Got what?" DiGeorge asked tensely.
"Killed, Deej."
The room became very quiet. After a moment, DiGeorge said, "The guy in Florida could have heard wrong."
"It's like hearsay evidence," Marasco agreed.
"We got to give this Franky Lucky a chance to clear it up for us."
"I hope he can, Deej."
DiGeorge released a long sigh. "So do I. You let me handle it. When is Victor getting back with this Florida boy?"
"He says he already oiled the wheels and they're turning pretty fast. He hopes maybe tomorrow. Maybe even sooner."
"Okay. You tell Franky Lucky I wanta talk to 'im, eh Phil?"
Marasco said, "Soon as he gets back."
"Where'd he go?"
Marasco shrugged his shoulders. "I told you, he's got his own ideas about things."
"Maybe his ideas are too big, Phil."
"Could be. He's been here just about all day though, Deej. Left about an hour ago. I can't hardly buy this boy as an informer, I just can't hardly believe it."
"Aaah hell, Phil," DiGeorge said miserably, "I've been making plans about sponsoring this boy. You know that. I like 'im, too. But I don't like any boy that well, and you know that too."
"I know that, Deej"
"You better get something ready, just in case."
"I'll have it ready, Deej. And I'll send him in as soon as he gets back."
"You do that." DiGeorge spun his chair about and stared glumly out the window. Several of his armed "soldiers" could be seen strolling the grounds. "Yeah, Phil, you do that."
Walker and his crew were returned to a red-alert status and diffused into Palm Springs environs in a quiet but continuous patrol operation. All important visitors arriving at the DiGeorge country estate, of which there had been an unusual number in recent days, were convoyed from and to the airport by strong security crews, and the villa itself was a veritable armed camp. Andrea D'Agosta was under virtual house-arrest and was rarely seen about the grounds; on occasional brief visits to the family swimming pool, she had been closely escorted by several watchful members of the palace guard.
Tensions had seemed to grow rather than to dissipate and by the 21st day of October, Julian DiGeorge's uneasiness had reached an intolerable level. He summoned Philip Honey Marasco to his chambers in the early afternoon and told the burly bodyguard, "I'm getting a nervous feeling about Screwy Looey. I wonder if you could find somebody to get in touch with him."
His face an impassive mask, Marasco replied, "Looey should know better than to worry you this way, Deej. He shouldn't make you go looking for him."
"You're thinking like me," DiGeorge said. "We know what's what, Phil. Screwy Looey is laying low on me."
"A guy shouldn't be afraid of his own family," Maraseo commented. "I think it's his pride, maybe. He told some of the boys he wasn't coming back without this Bolan's head."
"Somebody," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, "ought to put the word out that Screwy Looey had better get back home."
Marasco thoroughly understood the tone of this genteel conversation. To an outsider, DiGeorge's complaint might have sounded like nothing more than idle fretting. In the language of the Family, however, the message was as clear as a military command. Marasco jerked his head in a casual nod and replied, "I'll put the word out, Deej. Is there anything special you want said to Looey?"
DiGeorge studied his fingertips and said, "In this thing of ours, Philip Honey, we either stand together or we die alone."
Marasco briefly drummed his fingers on DiGeorge's desk, then said, "Yeah," and turned to leave.
"What are you making on Franky Lucky?" DiGeorge asked casually.
Emotion entered Marasco's features for the first time during the interview. He turned back to his boss with a heavy frown. "Everything checks, Deej, but hell, I just don't know. All the boys like 'im. He's tough and hard as a rock, but he don't go throwing his weight around. It ain't like he's trying to make up to everybody, you know . . . I mean, he don't step away from trouble, he just don't go looking for any. And the boys like 'im, I mean like they kind of look up to 'im, you know . . . But I just . . . don't . . ."
"Yeah. I know what you mean, Phil. Something bothers me, too, and I just can't finger it. You're sure his history checks out, eh?"
Marasco's frown deepened. "Yeah, it all checks. He don't leave many tracks, though. I guess he's been pretty much of a loner. But I finally got a line on a guy that knew 'im out in Jersey. The guy's in jail down in Florida, though."
"You know what to do about that," DiGeorge said quietly.
"Yeah. I already started the routine to spring 'im, but it does take some time, you know. Meanwhile I sent Victor Poppy down. He'll make the conversation and he ought to be back tomorrow sometime. Then maybe we'll know just how lucky this Franky Lucky really is."
"You know, I hope this boy checks out," DiGeorge said, sighing.
"So do I," Marasco replied.
"Meanwhile you watch 'im."
"Sure, Deej."
"We're going to have to open the family up some, you know. I'm going to take it up with the Commissione. And I'd like to sponsor this Franky Lucky. I just hope he checks out."
Marasco turned away again. He paused with a hand on the door and said, "He's got his own ideas. I'm letting him run around all he wants to outside. If this Bolan is still around, I'm betting Franky Lucky is the boy to come up with him."
"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge said tiredly. "And don't forget about Screwy Looey."
"I'll have the word out in ten minutes, Deej."
"You know what I want, Phil."
"I know what you want, Deej."
In such simple and seemingly casual terms were the preliminaries established for a Mafia murder contract. Screwy Looey Pena was behaving irrationally, to DiGeorge's thinking. Irrational behavior, went that thinking, was usually indicative of a guilty conscience. Capo Julian DiGeorge was intensely curious as to the reasons behind Lou Pena's continued avoidance of the family home. He would either have those reasons within the next 24 hours, or a murder contract, or both. Philip Honey Marasco, at that moment, knew precisely what his Capo wanted.
Thirty minutes later, no one at the DiGeorge villa knew precisely what anyone wanted. The electrifying news that rattled the family group arrived by way of a breathless "runner" who was brought to the villa in a chartered helicopter. The messenger, a "soldier" in Tony Danger's crew, received an immediate audience with the Capo and excitedly told him, "They busted us wide open, Mr. DiGeorge. I mean everywhere. They knocked . . ."
"Waitaminnit, waitaminnit!" DiGeorge growled. "They who?"
"Federals, I guess. They knocked over our warehouse in Chula Vista and picked off all the stuff, even the stuff under the floors. Tony Danger wasn't a block away, he just got away in time. He says to tell you the Mexicans picked up Morales just after he got off the stockpile shipment. He's try'na get word to the boats, but he ain't so sure it ain't too late for that."
DiGeorge passed a weary hand over his eyes and muttered, "What about the boats? What about 'em?"
"I don't know what about 'em, Mr. DiGeorge. Neither does Tony. That's what I meant. Tony don't know . . ."
"Tony don't know if his ass is on or off," DiGeorge snapped. "I mean how much of the stuff is on the boats?"
"Oh, well the whole stockpile, Mr. DiGeorge. That's what I . . ."
"Where is Tony Danger now?"
"He went down to the port to . . ."
"Then he's a damn dumb bastard!" DiGeorge growled. "If they know everything else, then they know about the port, too. He probably walked right into 'em, Okay. So we got a rat somewhere in the woodpile. You get in that whirlybird and get on back down to San Diego. If you find Tony Danger you tell him Deej says to kill everything, I mean all of it, everything stops. And you tell him that Deej personally wants the rat, so don't go taking nothing on himself. Now you go on. On your way out, tell Willie Walker and Philip Honey I want 'em in here right now."
Some minutes later, while the villa seethed with excitement, DiGeorge confided to Walker and Marasco. "I've just had this feeling. Something has been wrong, and I knew it. Now I guess I know what. I'm thinking about two names right now. You know the names I'm thinkin' of?"
"Screwy Looey," Marasco quietly replied.
"Franky Lucky," said Walker.
"Okay, but let's not jump too fast," DiGeorge cautioned them. His gaze fell speculatively on Marasco. "See if you can raise Victor Poppy and see if he's got any news for us. Let's see how lucky Franky Lucky is."
Marasco nodded his head solemnly and went to the telephone.
"Start the juice going," DiGeorge told Willie Walker. "Any place Screwy Looey could have lit down. Get into our connections uptown, gather up whatever crumbs you can find about this rumble, and see what can be put together."
Walker curtly nodded his head and departed. Marasco was direct-dialing an area code in Florida, reading the number from a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He completed the dialing and turned about to gaze at DiGeorge as the connection was being made. The conversation was brief, with Marasco doing most of the listening. Then he hung up and released an almost sad sigh.
"Okay," DiGeorge said impatiently, "what's the bad news?"
"Victor Poppy says this guy hasn't seen Frank Lucky in over five years. The guy says the last he heard, Franky Lucky had got drafted and got it in Vietnam."
"Got what?" DiGeorge asked tensely.
"Killed, Deej."
The room became very quiet. After a moment, DiGeorge said, "The guy in Florida could have heard wrong."
"It's like hearsay evidence," Marasco agreed.
"We got to give this Franky Lucky a chance to clear it up for us."
"I hope he can, Deej."
DiGeorge released a long sigh. "So do I. You let me handle it. When is Victor getting back with this Florida boy?"
"He says he already oiled the wheels and they're turning pretty fast. He hopes maybe tomorrow. Maybe even sooner."
"Okay. You tell Franky Lucky I wanta talk to 'im, eh Phil?"
Marasco said, "Soon as he gets back."
"Where'd he go?"
Marasco shrugged his shoulders. "I told you, he's got his own ideas about things."
"Maybe his ideas are too big, Phil."
"Could be. He's been here just about all day though, Deej. Left about an hour ago. I can't hardly buy this boy as an informer, I just can't hardly believe it."
"Aaah hell, Phil," DiGeorge said miserably, "I've been making plans about sponsoring this boy. You know that. I like 'im, too. But I don't like any boy that well, and you know that too."
"I know that, Deej"
"You better get something ready, just in case."
"I'll have it ready, Deej. And I'll send him in as soon as he gets back."
"You do that." DiGeorge spun his chair about and stared glumly out the window. Several of his armed "soldiers" could be seen strolling the grounds. "Yeah, Phil, you do that."
Chapter Sixteen
The contract
Carl Lyons arrived in the city of Redlands, just east of Los Angeles, shortly after dark on the evening of October 21st. He proceeded directly to a drive-in theatre and parked in the second row behind the concession building. Following instructions received earlier, he left the vehicle immediately, went to the snack bar, and purchased a candy bar and a box of popcorn. Moments later he returned to his car, a rear door on the passenger side opened and a man slid into the seat behind him. Lyons continued staring toward the screen and said, "Mr. Pointer?"
"That's me," the man said. "How did it go?"
"You were right on target, Pointer," Lyons replied. "We netted 20 kilos of H and about a ton of pot."
"They've been bunching it up, scared to move it with all the attention at the border crossings," Bolan-Pointer commented, chuckling.
"The best part," Lyons added, "is that we took out their entire supply line, from the Mexican side all the way."
"That was just the acquisition route," Bolan told him. "I have details here of one of their distribution set-ups. I'm leaving it on the back seat."
"I'm going to turn around," Lyons announced casually.
Bolan lit a cigarette and said, "Okay. But you won't see anything."
The police sergeant swivelled about with one arm on the back rest and peered into the darkness of the rear corner. He made out only a lean figure in a lightweight suit, a felt hat pulled low over the forehead "We'd like to have your name," he said faintly.
"You'd better be satisfied with what you're getting," Bolan replied. "You know a town called Blythe?"
"Sure, it's just this side of the Arizona border." The policeman was still trying to make an identification. He noted that his informant wore tight-fitting suede gloves. The cigarette glowed faintly as the man took a heavy drag, allowing Lyons to see enough to produce a curious feeling of letdown. "I guess I've been halfway thinking that you were Bolan," he said.
"And now?"
"Well I know you're not Bolan. The voice is close enough, but not the face. Okay, Pointer. What about Blythe?"
"It's in the package I'm leaving you. There's an old B-17 base near there. It was closed down right after World War Two Being used now as a public airport, but very little traffic. A lieutenant by the name of Gagliano is running the operation there, in an old building that used to be a hangar. It's a powder plant."
"A what?"
"It's where they cut the H, dilute it down, and package it. Then they wholesale it out from that point. Deliveries are made in small, private airplanes. The wholesale end of it is all done by air. I don't have any poop on the retail lines, and I gather that the organization isn't even working that end of it."
"How's the market?"
"Frantic, since the border pressure. The stuff's been stockpiling on the Mexican side, retail outlets are flipping for buys."
"Price should be good, then," he said.
Bolan grunted. "They're buying uncut H at a little over two thousand per kilo, then wholesaling the cut stuff at a going price that has lately gone to 14 thou the kilo."
Lyons whistled softly. "The profits in junk," he commented in an awed tone.
"Yeah. I wouldn't recommend moving on Blythe right away. They'll be cooling it after your hit this morning."
"We let one of their boats get through," Lyons said. "We're watching it."
"Good thinking. Play it right and you can line up their entire wholesaling operation."
"You know," Lyons said thoughtfully, "you could be Bolan."
His guest laughed and replied, "You just won't t let it go, will you?"
"You think like him and you talk like him and it wouldn't take too damn much to make you look like him."
Bolan laughed again and replied, "The word's all around that the guy got it at Palm Village."
"We've never found a body. Just how much do you know about Palm Village, Pointer?"
"An old gunner by the name of Pena was in charge up there. Somehow he's missing in action, or something. The whole mob is wondering about him."
"Pena is in custody," Lyons said.
"Yeah?"
"You interested?"
"I guess I am. Fair exchange?"
"No reason not to tell you," Lyons said. "The news is probably out by now, anyway, or will be. Braddock went up there today and busted the thing wide open."
"What do you mean? What thing?"
"The Palm Village police have had Pena under protective custody since shortly after the fireworks up there. His own request, as I understand it." Lyons laughed. "That head cop up there is something else. He's been hiding Pena in his own home. No charges, no nothing — just sanctuary. Or that was the way Braddock read it." The policeman's eyelids dropped to a half closure and he added, "Aren't you going to ask me who Braddock is?"
"I know who Braddock is," Bolan replied coolly.
"I know who you are, too," the Sergeant said. "You're Mack Bolan."
"You're out of your mind," Bolan said laughing.
"It's a good face job, Bolan. I had no idea it could be done so quickly. What's your cover? Maybe I can help you strengthen it."
"Thanks, but you're still out of your mind." Bolan cracked the door and Lyons got a good look at the face as the interior light flashed on. "I'll give you a call for the next setup."
"Do that," Lyons murmured. "One of the people in this detail would be interested in anything you might learn about the Palm Village massacre. He'd appreciate some intelligence, asked me to tell you that."
"Who's the interested party?"
"Agent named Brognola, Justice Department. He's interested in rackets."
"Everybody's interested in rackets these days," Bolan said. "Brognola, huh? I'm not sure I like the name."
"Hell, he's straight. Just because his name sounds Italian, you can't . . ."
"I know, I know," Bolan protested, chuckling. "Some of my best friends have Italian names." He got out of the car and walked into the darkness.
Julian DiGeorge stepped forward to greet Franky Lucky with a wide grin and a warm clasp of arms. "Come on in, siddown, siddown," the Capo said. "I was just fixin' some drinks. You still with Scotch?"
Franky Lucky Bolan smiled tiredly and dropped into a chair. "Sure, that's great, Deej," he replied. Philip Marasco leaned over to light Bolan's cigarette. DiGeorge thrust a glass of Scotch and ice into his hand and settled into the other chair. They sat in a sort of triangular arrangement, with Bolan at the point. The implications of the overly warm hospitality were not lost on Bolan. He realized that a lot of effort was being exerted to put him at ease. Outwardly, it worked — but his mind was seething with the possibilities of directions which the interview could take.
"You're looking tired, Franky," DiGeorge observed. "You're sure a go-getter. I guess you don't hardly stop all day long, eh?"
"It's not that bad," Bolan said. "I'm used to depending all on myself. I'll get used to an organization around me pretty soon."
"Feel like you're getting any closer to this Bolan?" Marasco asked quietly.
"Yeah and something else, too," Bolan replied quickly, staring steadily at the bodyguard. "What's this I hear about the big Mexican bust?"
"Just one of those things, Franky," DiGeorge put in hurriedly. "We learn to roll with the punches. Forget it. Hey, you always worked alone, eh? You never were in the army or navy or anything?"
Bolan snickered and flashed a broad grin to Marasco. "Hey, Philip Honey, does the boss think I'm that big a sucker?"
DiGeorge chuckled and hid his eyes in his glass. He sipped the drink, then came back with, "Only suckers put on the uniform, eh? Did you burn your draft card, Lucky?"
"Only suckers burn their draft cards too," Bolan said genially. "There's better ways. Some guys I heard of even bought themselves a stand-in."
DiGeorge's eyebrows elevated and his eyes locked with Marasco's. "Yeah, I guess I've heard of something like that myself," he said thoughtfully.
"They're not getting no uniform on Franky Lambretta," Bolan said tightly. "Behind a uniform, behind bars, it's all the same. No, thanks." He waved his hand as though to dismiss the entire subject, saying, "Listen, Deej, I stumbled onto something today maybe you should know about. Especially since this big Mexican bust everybody's talking about."
"Yeah?" DiGeorge was smiling archly at Marasco. His gaze flicked to Bolan. "Where you been all day, Lucky?"
"That's what I'm talking about. Listen. I was up around Palm Village. Now I've heard the boys talking about this Screwy Looey Pena. Listen I think the guy is a bird in a gilded cage."
Marasco's hand jerked toward his pocket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. DiGeorge exhaled sharply and said, "What're you onto, Lucky?"
"Just this. Screwy Looey has been cozying it up with the cops at Palm Village. All this time. And get this. There's no charges on him, nothin'. I make it that he asked to be held."
Marasco's cigarette broke in half and fell to the carpet. He hastily retrieved it and tossed it into an ashtray. "Jesus!" he said.
"What was I telling you, Phil," DiGeorge said softly. "Wasn't I telling you just a few hours ago that someone needs to talk to Screwy Lou?"
"What made him fall apart?" Mamsco asked.
"The question is, who puts him back together again?" DiGeorge said.
"You want him put back together, Deej?" Bolan asked casually.
DiGeorge glanced at Marasco and said, "That is exactly what I want, Franky Lucky."
"I work better by myself," Bolan said.
"I like the way you work, Lucky."
Bolan got to his feet and carefully set the empty glass on a table. "Thanks," he said. "Also I see better in the early morning."
"A man should pick his own time and place for his work," DiGeorge said.
"I better get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet."
"Yeah, you do that." DiGeorge stared somberly at Philip Marasco. "You keep on working like this, Lucky, you're gonna wind up with a sponsor. What do you think of that?"
"I think that's great," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He excused himself and went out.
DiGeorge and Marasco sat in silence for several minutes. Finally Marasco said, "Well?"
"It figures, that's clear enough," DiGeorge said. "He's the kind of guy would hire himself a stand-in."
"He's the kind of guy who's going to be a Capo some day," Marasco observed. He smiled. "You better watch out, Deej."
"That's part of the job, isn't it?" DiGeorge puffed. "I gotta leave an heir, don't I? Let's be realistic, Phil, this isn't saying anything against you, but who've I got to turn things over to now, huh? Who've I got?"
"You sure don't have me, Deej," Marasco admitted.
"Tell the boys to light a candle for Looey, eh?"
"Sure, Deej."
"I wonder," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, in a barely audible voice, "I just wonder . . . you think Frank Lucky's still big with Andrea?"
Marasco grinned. "You thinking of more than one kind of sponsorship, Deej?"
"Maybe. Yeah, maybe. Now wouldn't that be the all of it!"
"That's me," the man said. "How did it go?"
"You were right on target, Pointer," Lyons replied. "We netted 20 kilos of H and about a ton of pot."
"They've been bunching it up, scared to move it with all the attention at the border crossings," Bolan-Pointer commented, chuckling.
"The best part," Lyons added, "is that we took out their entire supply line, from the Mexican side all the way."
"That was just the acquisition route," Bolan told him. "I have details here of one of their distribution set-ups. I'm leaving it on the back seat."
"I'm going to turn around," Lyons announced casually.
Bolan lit a cigarette and said, "Okay. But you won't see anything."
The police sergeant swivelled about with one arm on the back rest and peered into the darkness of the rear corner. He made out only a lean figure in a lightweight suit, a felt hat pulled low over the forehead "We'd like to have your name," he said faintly.
"You'd better be satisfied with what you're getting," Bolan replied. "You know a town called Blythe?"
"Sure, it's just this side of the Arizona border." The policeman was still trying to make an identification. He noted that his informant wore tight-fitting suede gloves. The cigarette glowed faintly as the man took a heavy drag, allowing Lyons to see enough to produce a curious feeling of letdown. "I guess I've been halfway thinking that you were Bolan," he said.
"And now?"
"Well I know you're not Bolan. The voice is close enough, but not the face. Okay, Pointer. What about Blythe?"
"It's in the package I'm leaving you. There's an old B-17 base near there. It was closed down right after World War Two Being used now as a public airport, but very little traffic. A lieutenant by the name of Gagliano is running the operation there, in an old building that used to be a hangar. It's a powder plant."
"A what?"
"It's where they cut the H, dilute it down, and package it. Then they wholesale it out from that point. Deliveries are made in small, private airplanes. The wholesale end of it is all done by air. I don't have any poop on the retail lines, and I gather that the organization isn't even working that end of it."
"How's the market?"
"Frantic, since the border pressure. The stuff's been stockpiling on the Mexican side, retail outlets are flipping for buys."
"Price should be good, then," he said.
Bolan grunted. "They're buying uncut H at a little over two thousand per kilo, then wholesaling the cut stuff at a going price that has lately gone to 14 thou the kilo."
Lyons whistled softly. "The profits in junk," he commented in an awed tone.
"Yeah. I wouldn't recommend moving on Blythe right away. They'll be cooling it after your hit this morning."
"We let one of their boats get through," Lyons said. "We're watching it."
"Good thinking. Play it right and you can line up their entire wholesaling operation."
"You know," Lyons said thoughtfully, "you could be Bolan."
His guest laughed and replied, "You just won't t let it go, will you?"
"You think like him and you talk like him and it wouldn't take too damn much to make you look like him."
Bolan laughed again and replied, "The word's all around that the guy got it at Palm Village."
"We've never found a body. Just how much do you know about Palm Village, Pointer?"
"An old gunner by the name of Pena was in charge up there. Somehow he's missing in action, or something. The whole mob is wondering about him."
"Pena is in custody," Lyons said.
"Yeah?"
"You interested?"
"I guess I am. Fair exchange?"
"No reason not to tell you," Lyons said. "The news is probably out by now, anyway, or will be. Braddock went up there today and busted the thing wide open."
"What do you mean? What thing?"
"The Palm Village police have had Pena under protective custody since shortly after the fireworks up there. His own request, as I understand it." Lyons laughed. "That head cop up there is something else. He's been hiding Pena in his own home. No charges, no nothing — just sanctuary. Or that was the way Braddock read it." The policeman's eyelids dropped to a half closure and he added, "Aren't you going to ask me who Braddock is?"
"I know who Braddock is," Bolan replied coolly.
"I know who you are, too," the Sergeant said. "You're Mack Bolan."
"You're out of your mind," Bolan said laughing.
"It's a good face job, Bolan. I had no idea it could be done so quickly. What's your cover? Maybe I can help you strengthen it."
"Thanks, but you're still out of your mind." Bolan cracked the door and Lyons got a good look at the face as the interior light flashed on. "I'll give you a call for the next setup."
"Do that," Lyons murmured. "One of the people in this detail would be interested in anything you might learn about the Palm Village massacre. He'd appreciate some intelligence, asked me to tell you that."
"Who's the interested party?"
"Agent named Brognola, Justice Department. He's interested in rackets."
"Everybody's interested in rackets these days," Bolan said. "Brognola, huh? I'm not sure I like the name."
"Hell, he's straight. Just because his name sounds Italian, you can't . . ."
"I know, I know," Bolan protested, chuckling. "Some of my best friends have Italian names." He got out of the car and walked into the darkness.
Julian DiGeorge stepped forward to greet Franky Lucky with a wide grin and a warm clasp of arms. "Come on in, siddown, siddown," the Capo said. "I was just fixin' some drinks. You still with Scotch?"
Franky Lucky Bolan smiled tiredly and dropped into a chair. "Sure, that's great, Deej," he replied. Philip Marasco leaned over to light Bolan's cigarette. DiGeorge thrust a glass of Scotch and ice into his hand and settled into the other chair. They sat in a sort of triangular arrangement, with Bolan at the point. The implications of the overly warm hospitality were not lost on Bolan. He realized that a lot of effort was being exerted to put him at ease. Outwardly, it worked — but his mind was seething with the possibilities of directions which the interview could take.
"You're looking tired, Franky," DiGeorge observed. "You're sure a go-getter. I guess you don't hardly stop all day long, eh?"
"It's not that bad," Bolan said. "I'm used to depending all on myself. I'll get used to an organization around me pretty soon."
"Feel like you're getting any closer to this Bolan?" Marasco asked quietly.
"Yeah and something else, too," Bolan replied quickly, staring steadily at the bodyguard. "What's this I hear about the big Mexican bust?"
"Just one of those things, Franky," DiGeorge put in hurriedly. "We learn to roll with the punches. Forget it. Hey, you always worked alone, eh? You never were in the army or navy or anything?"
Bolan snickered and flashed a broad grin to Marasco. "Hey, Philip Honey, does the boss think I'm that big a sucker?"
DiGeorge chuckled and hid his eyes in his glass. He sipped the drink, then came back with, "Only suckers put on the uniform, eh? Did you burn your draft card, Lucky?"
"Only suckers burn their draft cards too," Bolan said genially. "There's better ways. Some guys I heard of even bought themselves a stand-in."
DiGeorge's eyebrows elevated and his eyes locked with Marasco's. "Yeah, I guess I've heard of something like that myself," he said thoughtfully.
"They're not getting no uniform on Franky Lambretta," Bolan said tightly. "Behind a uniform, behind bars, it's all the same. No, thanks." He waved his hand as though to dismiss the entire subject, saying, "Listen, Deej, I stumbled onto something today maybe you should know about. Especially since this big Mexican bust everybody's talking about."
"Yeah?" DiGeorge was smiling archly at Marasco. His gaze flicked to Bolan. "Where you been all day, Lucky?"
"That's what I'm talking about. Listen. I was up around Palm Village. Now I've heard the boys talking about this Screwy Looey Pena. Listen I think the guy is a bird in a gilded cage."
Marasco's hand jerked toward his pocket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. DiGeorge exhaled sharply and said, "What're you onto, Lucky?"
"Just this. Screwy Looey has been cozying it up with the cops at Palm Village. All this time. And get this. There's no charges on him, nothin'. I make it that he asked to be held."
Marasco's cigarette broke in half and fell to the carpet. He hastily retrieved it and tossed it into an ashtray. "Jesus!" he said.
"What was I telling you, Phil," DiGeorge said softly. "Wasn't I telling you just a few hours ago that someone needs to talk to Screwy Lou?"
"What made him fall apart?" Mamsco asked.
"The question is, who puts him back together again?" DiGeorge said.
"You want him put back together, Deej?" Bolan asked casually.
DiGeorge glanced at Marasco and said, "That is exactly what I want, Franky Lucky."
"I work better by myself," Bolan said.
"I like the way you work, Lucky."
Bolan got to his feet and carefully set the empty glass on a table. "Thanks," he said. "Also I see better in the early morning."
"A man should pick his own time and place for his work," DiGeorge said.
"I better get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet."
"Yeah, you do that." DiGeorge stared somberly at Philip Marasco. "You keep on working like this, Lucky, you're gonna wind up with a sponsor. What do you think of that?"
"I think that's great," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He excused himself and went out.
DiGeorge and Marasco sat in silence for several minutes. Finally Marasco said, "Well?"
"It figures, that's clear enough," DiGeorge said. "He's the kind of guy would hire himself a stand-in."
"He's the kind of guy who's going to be a Capo some day," Marasco observed. He smiled. "You better watch out, Deej."
"That's part of the job, isn't it?" DiGeorge puffed. "I gotta leave an heir, don't I? Let's be realistic, Phil, this isn't saying anything against you, but who've I got to turn things over to now, huh? Who've I got?"
"You sure don't have me, Deej," Marasco admitted.
"Tell the boys to light a candle for Looey, eh?"
"Sure, Deej."
"I wonder," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, in a barely audible voice, "I just wonder . . . you think Frank Lucky's still big with Andrea?"
Marasco grinned. "You thinking of more than one kind of sponsorship, Deej?"
"Maybe. Yeah, maybe. Now wouldn't that be the all of it!"
Chapter Seventeen
Man on ice
Tim Braddock leaned forward in his chair and said, "I just don't see how you could let yourself into a mess like this one, Genghis."
Conn coolly replied, "I wasn't in a mess, Braddock, until you horned in. I had the man on ice, he wasn't bothering anybody, and he was beginning to come around. Now you've got him scared to death again, and he's insisting that I charge him or let him go." The lanky lawman spat wet tobacco leaves on the floor at his feet and added, "I don't see any warrant in your hand, Tim."
"We're getting one," Braddock assured his host.
"On what?" Conn asked disgustedly.
"You name it, we've got it. Criminal conspiracy, for one. And then everything from intimidation to Murder One."
"In what town were all these crimes perpetrated, Braddock?"
The Captain from Los Angeles smiled serenely. "The conspiracy was originally hatched in Los Angeles and we can prove that. The execution of the crime, or crimes, covered a three-county area and possibly four. Sacramento is working with us on this one. We're going to bust the syndicate in this state, Genghis, with or without the help of hick . . . of small-town cops."
"I was told that Hardcase was cancelled," Conn said quietly.
"That's right. And now I'm on special to the Attorney General's office. We're starting here, Genghis, right here in your nice, balanced town. And you'd better get ready to explain why you've been harboring a known criminal in this balanced little town of yours."
Conn coolly replied, "I wasn't in a mess, Braddock, until you horned in. I had the man on ice, he wasn't bothering anybody, and he was beginning to come around. Now you've got him scared to death again, and he's insisting that I charge him or let him go." The lanky lawman spat wet tobacco leaves on the floor at his feet and added, "I don't see any warrant in your hand, Tim."
"We're getting one," Braddock assured his host.
"On what?" Conn asked disgustedly.
"You name it, we've got it. Criminal conspiracy, for one. And then everything from intimidation to Murder One."
"In what town were all these crimes perpetrated, Braddock?"
The Captain from Los Angeles smiled serenely. "The conspiracy was originally hatched in Los Angeles and we can prove that. The execution of the crime, or crimes, covered a three-county area and possibly four. Sacramento is working with us on this one. We're going to bust the syndicate in this state, Genghis, with or without the help of hick . . . of small-town cops."
"I was told that Hardcase was cancelled," Conn said quietly.
"That's right. And now I'm on special to the Attorney General's office. We're starting here, Genghis, right here in your nice, balanced town. And you'd better get ready to explain why you've been harboring a known criminal in this balanced little town of yours."