"Doesn't hurt a bit," Kaminsky said, smiling, then added, "You're next because of the timing of the pretrial."
Chasen nodded, still averting his eyes. He floated into interrogation on a cloud, feeling somehow insulated from everything around him.
The technician directed him to a chair with wires on it in the middle of the sparsely furnished room. When he sat down, the man strapped electrodes to his head, chest and arms.
"Okay, Mr. Chasen," the technician said, going to the control board. "First thing we need to do is establish a control sector. I'm going to ask you a number of simple questions. Either lie or tell the truth, it doesn't matter. We're simply setting some bottom limits on the scale. Understood?"
Chasen nodded.
"Okay," the man said. "Your name is Bozo the Clown, correct?"
Chasen kicked the chair leg, driving the tack painfully into his toe. "Correct," he said.
"Your wife's name is Marie."
He kicked the chair again. "Correct."
"You have fifteen children."
Same procedure. "Correct," he said, fighting off waves of pain.
"Mr. Chasen," the man asked, "you don't need to tell me any details but I have to ask if you've been having any emotional problems lately? Your readings are extremely high."
"I, uh, had a fight with ray wife last night," Chasen answered, "and I didn't get much sleep as a result."
"Well, I guess you're just an excitable person." The technician picked up a pen as he leaned over the scrolling graph. "Okay. Let's continue. You've worked for the Justice Department for ten years?"
He kicked the chair, his toe agonizing fire. "Correct."
"You have a top-secret security clearance?"
"Correct."
"Have you ever misused your clearance in any way?"
He backed off from the tack, the pain subsiding considerably. "No. Absolutely not."
"Have you ever had occasion to access the closed files containing the whereabouts of individuals protected under witness relocation?"
"No. Never."
"Have you ever given, or allowed to be given, any information from the closed files to any unauthorized person either within the government infrastructure or outside of it?"
He dwelt on the subsiding pain in his toe, letting his mind drift away from the subject. He felt ethereal, like a floating cloud, totally disassociated. "No," he said.
The technician looked at the results, running the graph back to check previous high points for several long agonizing minutes before shrugging and saying, "Looks like a clean bill of health, Mr. Chasen. But I'd advise you to work harder on getting along with your wife."
Chasen forced a smile. "Thanks." He got up and walked out the door, down the hall and into the men's room, where he cried for fifteen minutes before he was able to get himself together enough to return to his desk.
As Roy Carver drove, Bolan looked again at a photograph of the interrupted party at Laguna Beach, food and broken glass strewn carelessly around the dead. He had been through a stack of 8 x 10s similar to this one several times, all to the same result: he was more convinced than ever that the slaughter was an outside job — a fact that he couldn't reconcile with the vendettalike nature of the killings.
"I've never seen so many pickup trucks," Carver said as he wheeled the car through the southside streets of Oklahoma City. They had rented the Chevy at Will Rogers Airport and driven straight here, looking for Old Sam Giancarlo's house. "And they've all got guns in the back window."
"Yeah," Bolan replied. "Guns are a large component of life here. Old Sam must feel right at home. Once we crossed the South Canadian River a while back we entered what's called Cow Town or Packing Town, where the slaughterhouses and meat packers are."
"Just like Chicago," Carver said.
"Yeah."
Bolan put away the photographs and watched the post-World War II frame housing slide by. Giancarlo had settled here after trying out living in a couple of larger cities; to Bolan, his final choice of oil-busted Oklahoma City to settle reflected a mind that was tired and wanted nothing more than rest. Old Sam was weary. Bolan figured that was the principal reason why he had chosen to sell out the other families and run away.
Bolan had dispatched the other members of his squad to protect the Giancarlo clan members in Seattle and Denver. He had chosen to watch Giancarlo himself; Old Sam's testimony was potentially the most damaging because it was firsthand, not hearsay; this made him the most likely target. The man was willing to testify to direct involvement by the other families in illegal enterprises, something that, as Brognola had said, could literally break the hold of the Mob in Chicago. But given that fact, why had Pallonatti and Perezzi been wasted first? It seemed logical for the most dangerous man to be killed first, before protective steps were taken or even thought necessary. There were so many things that didn't add up with this deal, so much still to put together.
"Are we going to meet another security team at Giancarlo's house?" Carver asked, his eyes moving rapidly between the road and the Oklahoma City Mapsco in his lap.
"We're it," Bolan said. "What do you want, gift wrapping?"
"Are you serious?" Carver asked, turning to give the big man an inquiring look. "You saw those pictures. It looks like there are a bunch of them..."
"I figure three or four." Bolan met Carver's stare. "Look...what can we do? There are literally thousands of people on witness protection, and as much as v/e'd like to believe we know who the targets are on this thing, the fact is we can't be sure, at least not sure enough to convince the powers that be that what's needed now is a large investment of manpower."
"What about the lie detector tests?" Carver turned the car onto a north-south street with the ambiguous name of Western Avenue.
Bolan showed empty palms. "The tests came out clean — no leaks at Justice."
"You believe that?"
"No," Bolan replied. "But what are we going to do? With nothing more to go on than what we've got, there's just no chance of prying loose more personnel from Justice or anywhere else. To make a long story short, the buck stops with us."
"Anything on the other dead people in Laguna Beach?"
Bolan nodded, remembering the photos. "The other couple were a doctor and his wife from down the beach. It was clean... just friends having dinner together. Perezzi used to run Old Sam's legitimate businesses for him. Most of his friends were from the civilian community."
"God, those people don't screw around, do they?" Carver asked.
Bolan shrugged. He couldn't argue with Carver's assessment.
"This doesn't make any sense," Carver continued. "I'd feel really stupid getting killed while defending the kind of dude I joined Enforcement to stop."
Bolan ignored the statement. He couldn't argue with it, either. Instead he turned to catch the hundred block on the corner street sign. The neighborhood had gotten progressively better the farther they'd driven, until now they were passing large barnlike houses of brick and siding. "I think we're about two blocks from our turnoff," he said. "What's the name of the area?"
"Willow Run." Carver frowned. "What's the deal on witness protection, anyway? Maybe I'd like to go into a life of crime."
"Basically, the government sets you up," Bolan replied, "gives you a new name, gets you work if you need it and pays you a monthly stipend. The amount and the size of the stipend, of course, are determined by how much help the witness gives the government. Look, there's your turn."
Carver drove into the Willow Run neighborhood. Its sign and outer fence were badly in need of repair. As Carver got closer to Giancarlo's house, Bolan's spirits sank. He had prepared himself intellectually to deal with the Mafia head, but as they got physically closer, he was getting all churned up emotionally.
Most of the houses they were passing either had For Sale signs on them or were empty. The neighborhood appeared to be eighty percent vacant, a symptom of Oklahoma's hard times since the crash of '81 destroyed the state's single-reso
urce economy. Such low occupancy made for a bad killzone. There were too many places to hide.
As if echoing his thoughts, Carver remarked, "This would be a hellhole to defend. Why don't we take the old man someplace else?"
"He won't leave his home. He says Villani never scared him off before and he won't now."
"Great."
"Willow Way." Bolan pointed to a street sign. "Take a right. He should be on the cul-de-sac."
The street was only one block long, and Giancarlo's house was at the dead end, directly facing and cutting off the road with its commanding presence. A ten-year-old black Lincoln was parked in the driveway next to a Camaro convertible. Giancarlo's new name, Smithfield, was printed on the streetside mailbox.
Carver pulled up behind the Lincoln, and both men got out of the car. The weather was still warm, and Bolan wished he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt under his sport jacket. "Should we take our bags in?" Carver asked.
"Better see what kind of reception we get first."
Bolan knocked at the door of the two-story brick dwelling, his eyes roving the neighboring houses and landscape around them for anything out of the ordinary. Several houses on the cul-de-sac appeared empty.
"Does he have a job?" Carver asked, after a minute passed and no sound was heard.
"Old Sam? I don't know," Bolan said. "They wouldn't give me access to his file, just his address."
"He is expecting us, isn't he?"
"I'm sure Hal..."
"Freeze!" someone behind them screamed. Bolan instinctively dived sideways, coming up with Big Thunder.
"Justice Department!" Bolan yelled as he watched the man training a .38 on Carver. "Drop the weapon."
"You drop it or your buddy dies." The man cocked the hammer and moved up to stick the barrel into Carver's throat. "Drop it now!"
Bolan stood, raising his own aim to the man's head. "You do what you want," he said calmly. "The choice is yours. But if you choose to kill that man, you won't live long enough to make other choices. My name's Belasko and this is my partner, Carver. Hal Brognola has sent us down as protection from the Justice Department. Mr. Carver is going to reach slowly into his sport jacket and take out his identification. It's your choice."
"Don't move."
"Do it," Bolan said, moving several steps closer to the man, holding his gun outstretched, two-handed.
As Carver raised a hand to his inner breast pocket his assailant didn't move, didn't flinch — but he didn't shoot, either. Carver got into his pocket without incident, brought out his ID and handed it to the gunman.
The man glanced quickly at the badge, then backed up a pace, lowering the long-barrel .38. "My name's Joey Giancarlo," he said, turning to glare at Bolan, who was still aiming his weapon at the man's head.
"Prove it," Bolan said. "Roy. Get the gun."
Carver removed the .38 from the man's hand, then grabbed the wallet out of his pocket.
"You son of a bitch," the man said. He was young, in his twenties, and looked like a hothead. "I'll get you for this."
"He's Joey Giancarlo, all right." Carver showed Bolan the wallet. A new driver's license had his new name, but he still carried old ID and club cards in the name Giancarlo.
"Weil, so he is," Bolan replied. He lowered the gun.
Joey snapped the wallet out of Carver's hand. "Fuckin' cops are all alike," he said, then smiled. "So you guys are my hired hands." His smile turned to a laugh.
"What's so funny?" Carver said.
Joey Giancarlo shook his head. "Nothin'," he said. "Nothin's funny. Come on around back, I'll introduce you to my old man."
Bolan and Carver followed Joey around the side of the house. It was a large, relatively new place, one that would sell for close to a half million on the coast, but that was probably worth less than a hundred thousand in Oklahoma's economy. Even at that, he was sure that Old Sam could afford much better. Like most mafiosi, he had to protect his real income, his blood money, from prying government eyes.
The old man sat in the middle of the backyard, weeding out the last of the brown summer grass from a garden and preparing for fall planting. He had aged considerably since the last picture Bolan had seen of him was taken, but when he looked up, his strong, cruel eyes bored into Bolan, and his face wore a tight-lipped sneer. He was still the padrone.
"Hey," Joey said, still smiling. "Look at our new boys — the G-men they sent down from witness protection."
Giancarlo stood, carefully removing his gardening gloves and folding them before setting them on the small stool he had used for a seat amid the weeds and dead flowers. He looked at Joey. "Go get me a cold drink," he said without inflection.
He walked out of the garden slowly, staring intently at Bolan the whole time. "You can't grow nothin' here," he said. "The whole place is damned red clay. They give it ta the Indians because it wasn't worth nothin' for farmin'. Then they discover the oil and send the Indians off someplace else. You're a killer, ain't you?"
"My name's Belasko," Bolan said. "They don't pay me enough to give you any more than that."
Giancarlo pointed a crooked finger at him. "You're a killer for sure. And you hate my guts."
"I hate more than your guts," Bolan replied.
The man grinned, revealing toothless gums. "I like that," he said. "You hate me 'cause I break the law, huh? 'Cause I sell poor people numbers and lend people money when they can't get it no place else."
Giancarlo put his hand on his chest and tapped it. "My damn heart bleeds for you, killer. I'm just a man that looks out for his family, that's all, a family man."
Bolan just stared at him, the man returning the stare in full measure, enjoying the game.
"Tell me, killer," Giancarlo said, "who's the coon with you?"
Bolan's eyes widened and he turned quickly to Carver, who stood with clenched fists and dark eyes. "This is my associate, Mr. Carver."
"Well, you associate with whoever you want," Old Sam stated, "but ain't no jungle bunny comin' into my house."
"We're a package," Bolan said, turning to stare Carver to silence. "You get us both or nothing."
Giancarlo pursed his lips, wrinkling his face like a raisin. "He don't eat with the rest of us. There's a servant room off the kitchen he can sleep in."
"Neither one of us wants to eat with you," Bolan returned. "As for that servant's room, it sounds perfect for both of us. And I'll tell you something else. I almost can hope I fail, because guys like you deserve killing."
Giancarlo threw back his head and laughed loudly, slapping his leg. "I know you too good, government killer. You'd let 'em get you before they get me, huh? Same with the black boy who can't eat at my table. Well, don't you worry. Benito Villani is an oily old dago who tried his whole life to get the better of me. So, you kill Villani for me and maybe I move back to Chicago. What do you say?"
Bolan made no reply, for the sound of a noisy argument caught the attention of all three. Bolan reached for Big Thunder, as Joey Giancarlo and a young woman with long, black hair came around the corner of the house. The woman had a definite uptown look to her, her clothes well tailored and stylish, her face beautiful despite being twisted as she expressed vehement disagreement with Joey. Joey broke away from her and hurried over to the old man.
"I told her." He spread his arms and showed empty palms. "I told her it wasn't safe and she should go someplace else..."
"Daddy!" the woman cried, running to the old man and kissing him on the cheek. "I heard about Uncle Rico and Mr. Perezzi on the radio. I was so worried."
"I'm real glad to see you, baby." Giancarlo hugged the woman to him, then pulled away. "But you don't want to be around here now."
"Nonsense! If there's some sort of trouble I want to be with you."
"That's the worst thing you could do," Bolan told her.
The young woman looked at him, eyes flashing. "And who the hell are you?" she asked harshly.
"Angela," Old Sam said, "this is Mr. Belasko and Mr. Carver, his... partner.
The government sent them down to look out for me. So you see? Everything's okay here. You go back to Los Angeles and write good stories for your movies. I'll be fine."
"Sorry, Daddy," she said, "but I'm not leaving as long as there's trouble. I can write here just as well as in L.A. Maybe you can send one of these gentlemen to carry in my bags for me."
Giancarlo looked at Bolan. "You see, killer? You see how my family loves me?"
"Miss Giancarlo," Bolan said. "If you truly want to help your father, then staying here is not the way to do it. There are only two of us here to protect..."
"Three," Joey interrupted.
'Three," Bolan repeated. "And if we have to divide our time between your father and you, I'm afraid we won't be nearly as effective."
"Why don't you just arrest Ben Villani?" she said. "He's the one behind all this."
"We don't have any direct evidence linking Villani with the murders," Bolan said. "But in any case, for your father's safety I insist you turn right around and take the next plane to Los Angeles, if that's where you make your home."
She stared hard at Bolan, her eyes liquid brown pools, her face smooth as olive oil, then turned to Giancarlo. "What do you want me to do, Daddy?"
"It won't be safe for you here, honey," he said. "I'm tired. I ain't gonna run from Ben no more. Maybe these fellas can help me out, but if you're here..."
Angela Giancarlo nodded, kissing her father on the cheek again. "I'll leave," she said, "but I won't go to Los Angeles. I'll check into a motel or something under a different name. That's safe enough, isn't it?"
Bolan nodded. He knew that was the best he was going to get from her.
"Good," she said. "That way we can visit, and you can show me your new home."
"You're a good girl, Angie," Old Sam said. "Your mama woulda been proud of you."
As the two walked arm in arm into the house, Bolan tried to figure out how such an open sewer as Sam Giancarlo could have produced such refinement and beauty.
* * *
"The food was fine," Ken Chasen said irritably. "I just wasn't hungry, that's all."
The Killing Urge Page 7