Girrardi was a firm believer in the lessons taught by history. If you substituted Mafia for Rome, you had the Pittsfield problem in a nutshell. The families had got soft, allowing half-assed savages and greasy foreigners to operate in areas that used to be secure. One day, the capos would look around and find the savages had picked them clean.
For Gino's money, you could date the brotherhood's decline from the appearance of one Mack the Bastard Bolan. Busting old Don Sergio the way he did, and rolling on to shake the families from coast to coast. Forget about the way he scorched their asses overseas. The guy was gangbusters, in the flesh, and his success had been the downfall of the syndicate. Once the Cubans and Colombians and all the rest had seen how one determined man could beat the odds, they figured, hey, why not? The families united can't eliminate one man, what can they do against a hundred men? A thousand?
There was still a chance to save it, turn it all around, if they moved in time. Pittsfield was the perfect place to take a stand and get some recognition from the capos. But he had to make sure that everything ran smoothly. There were different kinds of recognition, and he didn't need the kind that went to losers.
The losses in Pittsfield could be useful, in their way. When he asked the capos for troops to whip the savages in line, declining profits were the lever he could use to get the sluggish bastards off their butts. Greed would motivate his sponsors to come through with the troops and guns he needed to reclaim western Massachusetts for the brotherhood. Provided that he played his cards right, sure.
Some of the capos might prefer to dump him outright, place another overseer at the head of an invading army ordered to purge the barbarians. It would be Gino's task to sell himself to the doubters, to convince them of his familiarity with the problems and people of Pittsfield, to make himself sound indispensable. It was a tactic fraught with perils, for if Gino shouldered the responsibility alone, there would be no one to share the blame for any failure. But his mind would not accept the possibility of defeat.
When he finished mopping up in Pittsfield, there were other worlds to conquer. He would be a man to reckon with, commander of an army that had been tested on the streets. The soldiers would belong to others at the start, but he would win them over, promise them the moon — or, anyway, a piece of Mother Earth — to plant their loyalties firmly in his pocket. After Pittsfield, he would take another ride to Boston, and the capos would listen this time.
But first, he needed troops, munitions. He had to go before the board with hat in hand, suggesting rather than demanding, making them believe that it was all their idea. If he had to kiss some ass to earn his one big break, then Gino was prepared to pucker with the best. The time would come when they would stand in line to kiss his ass, and thank their lucky stars for the opportunity.
He locked the office, squinting into sunlight for a moment, fumbling with his shades before he got them on. Late afternoon, and spring was lengthening the days. So warm a spring promised a hot summer, a record breaker. The thought made Gino smile as he strutted toward his cherry-red El Dorado in the parking lot. Ready for a turn behind the wheel, he whistled as he walked, the keys in his hand.
Girrardi never heard the tail fall into step behind him, never felt him there until his key was in the lock, the muzzle of a pistol jammed against his kidney. Nimble fingers found the .38 beneath his arm and whisked it away.
"Get in and slide across."
The voice was calm and businesslike. It made Girrardi's hair stand on end.
"You're making a mistake," he said, embarrassed when his voice cracked.
No answer, but the pistol dug in deeper. He braced himself for the explosion that would drop him where he stood. Another heartbeat, and he got the message, clammed up and followed instructions. Huddled in the shotgun seat, he averted his eyes as his captor slid behind the wheel.
The El Dorado came to life, and Gino risked a glance in the direction of the gunner. Tall and muscular, the chiseled features deadpan, automatic leveled in his left hand while he used the right to drive.
For twenty minutes they drove westward, out of town, until they were surrounded by evergreens and rolling countryside. When he was satisfied with the degree of isolation, Bolan nosed the El Dorado down a narrow, rutted track between the trees. He could sense Girrardi's nervousness beside him.
"We oughta talk about this deal," Gino said, as Bolan brought the car to a halt and killed the engine.
Bolan looked him over, the Beretta angled casually in the direction of Girrardi's face. "So talk."
The mobster looked surprised, but actual relief was premature. Behind narrowed eyes, his mind was racing, desperate to cut a deal.
"You tell me what'll make you happy, an' you got it, man. If I ain't got it, I can put my finger on it for you, quick as shit."
The soldier smiled. "I'm glad to hear that, Gino."
Bolan knew about the problems of the Pittsfield mob. He kept himself informed. The syndicates had been in decline in western Massachusetts since the elimination of Don Sergio. Orders came from Boston now, some said from New York, as greedy capos quarreled over territory that was up for grabs. Girrardi had been sent to pacify an area in revolt, eliminate competition and recapture the illicit profits that were flowing into the pockets of the mob's chaotic rivals. After nearly six months on the job, the new enforcer's gains were minimal. His employers back in Beantown would be looking at replacements, if he didn't cut the mustard soon.
"I'm after information, Gino."
Girrardi swallowed hard and glanced around, as if he feared the brooding evergreens might overhear.
"Oh, yeah?"
"I figure you can help me, Gino. Anything I want, remember?"
"Yeah… well, sure. Why not? What do you wanna know?"
"A name."
"I'm listening."
"Somebody called me home. He didn't leave a name, but I'm interested in making contact. Follow me so far?"
"Uh… not exactly."
"Maybe this will help."
He fished inside the pocket of his coat and watched Girrardi flinch despite the fact that he was already staring down the barrel of a gun. Bolan found the yellowed TIF business card and passed it over. When he had read it, Gino shook his head.
"I don't know anything about this outfit. Are they new in town?"
The guy was drawing blanks, and Bolan didn't read it as a stall. He knew Girrardi's background, Bronx to Boston. There was no reason why he should recognize the card… unless he was behind the man who dropped it, back in Hartford.
"Maybe you've seen this before?"
The hand went into the pocket again, and Girrardi flinched once more. The marksman's medal rested coolly on the outstretched palm.
"Aw, shit."
Gino was with him now, and reading Bolan's message loud and clear.
"Somebody called me home," Bolan said again. "I want to touch base as soon as possible. If you know anything at all…"
Girrardi wore a mask of total incredulity. "You crazy, man? I mean… hey, no offense, okay? This is crazy. Why would anybody from the Families want you back in Pittsfield? Why would anybody from the Families want you anywhere? You're poison, man. Let's face it, everything you touch turns into shit for the amici."
Bolan heard him out, alert for any hint of falsehood… but there was nothing. Fear, oh yes. A lifetime's worth of nervousness. And something else — a sharp, almost indignant tone, as if the mobster's intelligence had been insulted.
"How solid are your communications, Gino?"
"What? My… Oh, yeah, I get you." Momentary hesitation, as the mafioso pondered what he could afford to give away. "I've got ears out, dig it? Hey, I wouldn't shit you… it could be better, right? But I've got eyes and ears on the Colombians, the biker trash. You name it."
"No. You name it, Gino."
"Huh?"
"I'm looking for a name. You give, you live."
"Well, Jesus… if I had the name you're looking for, you think I'd keep it to myself?
I told you, this ain't Family business, man. I got no stake in this, nobody to protect. I just don't know!"
Desperation in the narrow eyes. Girrardi wasn't lying, at least no more than necessary for the preservation of his twisted self-respect. He would have sold his mother to save himself from death.
"All right. Get out."
"What?" Girrardi couldn't keep the sudden panic from his voice.
"I said, get out."
"Hey, man, I leveled with you, swear to God."
"And I believe you, Gino."
"Huh? Well, what the hell…"
"You've got a long walk home. I'll drop the Caddy where I found it."
"Walk? That's it? I mean, you wouldn't…" Gino couldn't bring himself to voice the thought, plant deadly seeds in Bolan's mind.
"Relax," the soldier said. "White flag."
"I don't suppose you could drop me near a phone?"
"Don't push it, Gino."
"Right."
He scrambled clear and closed the door, ducked to face his adversary through the open window. "Listen, if I run across that name you're lookin' for…"
"I'll be in touch," the Executioner assured him.
Bolan put the El Dorado in reverse and backed down the hundred yards of rutted, unpaved road until he reached the shoulder of the highway. He could just make out Girrardi's silhouette among the longer shadows of the trees, already trudging toward the highway where he would thumb a ride. He wished the mafioso luck and powered out of there. Toward Pittsfield.
Bolan was convinced that Girrardi had no useful information. The guy's reaction had been convincing. Gino had been horrified to think that any member of the family would lure Bolan into town deliberately, inviting grim disaster when the territory was already in disarray. But if the Mafia was not responsible…
He considered the other possibilities. Revenge, of course, still topped the list — but there would have to be a syndicate connection even so, and Girrardi would be sniffing after that one. A rival mob might be responsible — the bikers or Colombians Girrardi had referred to, or some unexpected clique of players. Anyone could study ancient news on microfilm, discover Bolan's links to TIF in Pittsfield. It would take a strategist of some sophistication to devise the final plan, but mafiosi had no corner on intelligence. -
Which put the soldier back where he had started. Except that now his eyes and ears were multiplied by the number of Girrardi soldiers on the street. Before he made it back to town, the syndicate enforcer would be faced with an unpleasant choice: he could report to Boston or New York, wherever, that the Executioner was back in town, or he could keep the news to himself awhile and play the game with Bolan, using every means at his disposal to uncover Bolan's adversary. With any luck at all, his men might turn up the name, and he might offer it to Bolan as a sacrifice, anything at all to get him out of town and off his back.
He didn't like to use the syndicate. He felt more comfortable pursuing them than working hand in glove, but time was of the essence now. Whoever had designed the plan that lured him to Pittsfield, he would not be sitting on his hands.
A hunter all his life, Mack Bolan knew a snare awaited him in Pittsfield, but he could not turn away to save himself. His destiny was here, entangled with his roots. If he had to use the syndicate to find that destiny, so be it.
Bolan had already bitten on the lure, was hooked and waiting for the fisherman to reel him in. There might be some surprises, though, before his faceless adversary had him safely on the dock. The fisherman might find that he had hooked a monster that he couldn't handle. And the fisherman might become the fish food, if he wasn't careful.
Smiling to himself, Mack Bolan let the El Dorado's power plant take him home.
12
"Sit down, Frank. Take a load off."
Captain Pappas closed the office door and circled back around his desk, then relaxed in the padded swivel chair. Across the desk, Sergeant Frank Lawrence settled stiffly in a straight-backed chair. With eight years on the force and two of those in Homicide, the younger officer was one of Pappas's trusted aides. He had been summoned to discuss strategy for dealing with the Executioner's possible visit to Pittsfield.
"What's the word?" Frank Lawrence asked.
"He'll play," the chief of homicide responded. "Claims he won't be much help, but even so…"
"Might be the truth. He's rusty, out of touch."
Pappas was surprised to feel the sudden heat of irritation rising in his cheeks. "He's as sharp as anybody on the force today. Hell, I should be so rusty."
Lawrence seemed surprised by the vehement response. Grinning sheepishly, the sergeant shrugged. "No offense," he said. "I didn't know you two were all that tight."
"None taken," Pappas told him, embarrassed by his gut reaction to the criticism of a friend. "He brought me up from foot patrol and taught me everything there is to know on homicide. He partnered with me when I was a rookie, wet behind the ears. Our third night out, he saved my life. I'd say that we were tight."
Except the past year or two. Where were you then, Big John?
The sergeant looked Pappas square in the eye and said, "Okay."
As if to cover for the show of sentiment, Pappas felt compelled to say, "He won't be taking any active role in the investigation. Purely advisory, nowhere near the firing line."
"We don't have an active case for him to work on, anyway. For all we know, that call was bullshit."
Pappas frowned. "I've thought about that," he said. "Whichever way it cuts, we can't afford to take a chance. I'd rather be unnecessarily prepared than have a firefight take us by surprise. Nobody knows our boy like Weatherbee."
"He missed our boy the first time out."
"We missed him, all of us. It wasn't Al's mistake. He focused in on Bolan from the first, but there was nothing we could hang a case on. Then, one day, we had the goods to send him up forever, and we couldn't find the bastard. He was here and there and everywhere… and he was gone."
"Tough break."
"The toughest. No one ever said a thing — at least they never did where I could hear them — but I think Al's been feeling guilty ever since."
The sergeant frowned in sympathy and kept his personal opinions to himself. "So what's the action?"
"Only one way we can play the game. That's watch and wait. Increase surveillance on the likely targets, and be ready with backup if and when he hits."
"Defensive posture?" Lawrence sounded disappointed. More, there was a trace of disgust in his tone.
"For now," the captain answered, nodding slowly. "Till we have confirmation, anyway. Some kind of fix on a potential target."
"By the time we get our fix, it'll be too damned late. The way this bastard moves, we'll always be two steps behind him, eating dust."
Surprised by Lawrence's intensity, the chief of homicide leaned back and cocked an eyebrow at his young subordinate. "I'm open to suggestions, Frank."
"All right, sir, since you ask. I'd like to see a more aggressive attitude on this. Go after those potential targets you mentioned, drive them underground and make our boy go hunting for them, knock him off his stride. While he's chasing shadows, we can take him on his blind side."
"Two problems," Pappas told him wearily. "The first is that we can't harass 'law-abiding citizens' without due cause. I'd have a flock of high-priced lawyers crawling up my ass with flashlights by the time you got the first bunch into booking. We'd be sifting through injunctions and restraining orders till the cows come home."
He hesitated, reading his subordinate's expression, conscious of the fact that he had seen it staring back at him from mirrors countless times before.
"The second thing you should remember is we're here in Pittsfield, not in Vietnam." Before the sergeant could respond, he raised a warning hand. "All this blind-side talk is strictly borderline, and you should know that. You have a plan for locking Bolan up, I'll talk about it with you all night long. But I have never run a firing-squad division, and I never will."<
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"You'll never get the cuffs on Bolan."
"I gave up telling fortunes, Frank. You may be right, but it's been done before. Our boy's a citizen like anybody else, and he's got rights that we are obligated to respect within the limits of the law."
A short, derisive snort from Lawrence. "Citizen? This guy's a one-man crime wave. He's a goddamned national disgrace! Desertion from the Army. Homicides too numerous to tabulate. A list of felonies you'd need a week to read. He's been shoot on sight with CIA and FBI for years."
The chief of homicide made an effort to refrain from snapping back at Lawrence. "What the federals do is their concern, and none of ours until they cross the line. We're running a police department here, and we're operating by the book. If you're looking for search and destroy, you're in the wrong place."
Lawrence sobered, the angry color draining from his cheeks. He sat back in his chair, as if attempting to relax, but he still struck Pappas as uncomfortable, unbending.
"Bolan held this whole department up to ridicule. He made this force a laughingstock."
John Pappas cocked his head, as if intent on listening to something while his eyes bored into Lawrence. "You hear anybody laughing, Sergeant? I don't. Bolan is top priority with this department. He's top priority with me. That doesn't — I repeat, does not — eliminate our duty to obey the laws that we enforce. If one of our men pops the cap on Bolan, I'll be looking at the details, just like any other shooting on the street."
"Yes, sir."
The chief of homicide relaxed a little, offering Lawrence a cigarette, lighting one himself when the sergeant shook his head.
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