Ivory Wave

by Don Pendleton

  He hurried downstairs. The charge went off with a soft pop and a rush of heat that he could feel before he reached the bottom. It would burn fast, and because the upper floor was close to the roof, the flames would ignite the timbers and tear through the steel and show in the night sky. He didn’t have much time to do the rest of what he’d come for.

  He rolled the next two canisters under the Ivory Wave section of the warehouse, approaching it from two different angles to make sure he covered it all. Once those went off, he pulled the pins on two more and threw the grenades to the far corners. On his way out the door, he ignited a final one, in order to discourage anyone from rushing in.

  Outside, he ran the couple of blocks to the tractor, threw his zippered bag in and climbed up into the seat. Any fire crews would arrive too late, he hoped. When they did arrive, they would find an inferno, and within it, once the fires were contained and extinguished, the broken body of a man.

  As long as Peggy kept her mouth shut, nobody would be able to connect Tom Kenner to the fire, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to connect Mack Bolan to Tom Kenner.

  That night, in the motel, Bolan watched a local TV news reporter doing a stand-up outside the “uncontrolled blaze” at the Devilweed warehouse. She tried to keep a straight face, but when she described the products that Devilweed distributed, she almost lost it. When the anchor moved on to a story about a possible cheese shortage at local restaurants, he turned it off and slept.

  13

  Massimo Chiarello sat in the conference room at the NDC Consolidated Industries building, listening to his father chairing a meeting unlike any other that had taken place in this room. Large windows on the end of the room faced toward Lake Erie, though buildings between there and the lake obstructed the view, except from the upper floors. Nuncio stood at the front of the room, pacing back and forth in front of a whiteboard that had been rolled in for the meeting.

  There were fourteen men in the room, men who had worked for Nuncio for years and years and had demonstrated their loyalty and their courage time and again. Most of them had been with Nuncio since the old days. They had beaten shopkeepers with baseball bats and sawed-off pool cues for Nuncio. They had capped people, cut off heads and hands and dumped bodies into the lake or buried them under construction projects. One of them, Marco Cosimo, had been with Nuncio the day his wife was buried; he was the man who drove Nuncio home from the funeral and served as Nuncio’s crutch until he was able to get his feet back under him.

  Massimo didn’t like all the talk of war, because he felt as if he was at war with himself. He knew that he was the single individual most responsible for the entire mess. Nuncio had been pushed over the edge by the scene at his Shaker Heights house. He was convinced there was a major attack coming on him and his interests, and he wasn’t wrong about that. But he didn’t know that his own son, the man sitting at the far end of the table, was the point man in that assault.

  If he ever found out, Massimo was dead. If his father didn’t kill him, Gino would. Gino idolized the old man, worshipped the ground he walked on. He loved the fact that Nuncio held on to the appearance of going straight. Finding legal substances and making them more powerful was easier than evading the police for illegal drugs. The best part was, if the operation was shut down they could feign ignorance with the cops and shunt the enterprise into other kinds of products. He enjoyed the hustle of the business world. But if Nuncio had wanted to stay—like Uncle Dom—an old-line gangster, Gino would have gone along with that, too, though not as happily. Where Massimo had a mean streak, Gino was soft. Massimo was huge, Gino slight. He took after their father, while Massimo had always been more like their mother. She’d had a spine of steel until cancer racked her body from the inside out.

  So he sat at the table and listened to the conversation, but his head was spinning with the knowledge that he was the enemy under discussion. He tried to look engaged and involved, but he was sweating rivers under his T-shirt and tracksuit.

  “At Brendan’s suggestion, I brought in the cops,” Nuncio was saying. “Acting all innocent and everything.”

  “It wasn’t acting,” Brendan said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Nuncio took a long drag on his cigar, illuminating the tip like a beacon. “Right. Anyway, they took the place apart. Crime scene techs, photographs, video, everything. They spent pretty much the whole day there. They’ll have records of everybody who’s been in and out of the house. That sucks, but we haven’t used it for anything illegal. Only problem will be if we do need to exact some kind of retribution, then we’ve brought attention to ourselves, and they’ll have our fingerprints and all on the record.”

  “That’s true,” Gino said. “But it doesn’t matter. We have to take action.”

  Nuncio rubbed the ever-growing bald area above his forehead. “Yeah, you’re right. We let somebody do that to us and we don’t strike back, we’re finished. Every second-rate punk in the Midwest will come in here and walk all over us.”

  “We won’t let that happen, Papa,” Gino said. “We’ll find out who it was and we’ll do them double, no matter what.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Nuncio said. “And it might be risky. But you’re right, we will do it. You’re all working your contacts, right? See if there’s anybody out on the street talking about the hit. Thing like that, people brag. All we need is for one idiot to mouth off and we’ll have them. Soon as you hear anything, any of you, let me know. Day or night, anytime. We can’t sit on it once we find out.”

  “What other steps are you taking, Nunce?” Gordon Hawkins asked. He was one of NDC’s various vice presidents, a man who had come from the business community rather than the crime community, and had made himself invaluable.

  “Such as?”

  “Listening around is all good and well, but you could be taking more direct action, too,” Hawkins stated. “There are a limited number of outfits that would even try something like this, right? It has to be somebody local, for starters, to have known about the game. So snatch up somebody from each operation you think could be involved and work them until you get answers. Put out the word that there’ll be a reward for anybody who turns in the hitters, and make it a big one. For five million bucks, most people would betray their own mother.”

  Massimo saw his father thinking over that suggestion. He didn’t believe the man could put together five million in cash very quickly. But Hawkins was right—Dario would rat him out for a quarter of that. Hell, he’d do it for ten grand and a half-hour head start getting out of town.

  Maybe Massimo should take out the other guys who were there, Nico, Dario and Artie. Not Uncle Dom. He was a hard case who wouldn’t break. And maybe Nico would be okay. He had been with Uncle Dom in the joint; he didn’t owe any long-term loyalty to Nuncio. But Dario and Artie were already taking a chance by moving against their boss. They might see some sort of salvation in confession.

  It would be easiest to take Dario and Artie out before they heard about any reward. After, they might get more careful.

  Massimo couldn’t ever forget that he had been the one who pulled the trigger. For that reason, the others couldn’t be trusted. Not completely.

  “I have another question, Nunce,” Marco Cosimo said. He was a distinguished-looking man, with silver hair swept back from his forehead and a lean, patrician face. Massimo had always thought he looked like a college professor. Or at least someone who played a college professor in the movies, which was as close as Massimo had ever been to one.

  “What is it?”

  “Where’s your brother Dominic in all this? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “Yeah,” Brendan said. “Dom’s badass. He can help out.”

  Massimo’s stomach lurched. He had been silently hoping that nobody mentioned Uncle Dom.

  “My brother needs more time to adjust to being on the ou
tside,” Nuncio said. “He was away for a long time. Since he got back, he’s been...well, distant. He’s only been here once, and he’s never set foot in the office I gave him. He’s got to figure out what his involvement in the business will be, and we’ll go from there. I haven’t talked to him yet about what happened at the house, but I will after we’re done here.”

  Cosimo nodded, as if satisfied by Nuncio’s answer. Massimo wouldn’t have been. Why haven’t you told him, he would have asked. Don’t you think he’s got exactly the kind of experience we need here? We’ve been legitimate businessmen for more than a decade, and now we’re supposed to just set that aside and go back to our old ways. We could use someone on our side who never gave up the life.

  But he was glad that Cosimo didn’t press. He would call Uncle Dom as soon as he could, and warn him that Nuncio would be checking in.

  Then he would figure out a way to get rid of Artie, Dario and Nico. He was sure Uncle Dom would understand. Those guys could get him and Uncle Dom killed or arrested. Either fate had to be avoided. If Uncle Dom went back inside, he would never come out.

  And Massimo had to remain free. He had found a new hobby, a new passion. Killing those guys would solve two problems at once—it would protect him and Uncle Dom, and it would allow him to practice the thing he now loved more than anything else in the world.

  “One more thing has just come up tonight,” Nuncio said. “Most of you haven’t heard about this yet. I don’t know if it’s related, but I feel like it must be. Somebody hit our distribution center in Fort Wayne tonight. Burned it to the ground. I just got the call right before I came in here, and I’m still waiting to find out the extent of the damage. But we had a lot of product sitting there, and my understanding is that it’s gone. A total loss.”

  “Fort Wayne?” somebody echoed.

  “That’s right.”

  “How the hell does somebody hit us here and in Fort Wayne both?” Cosimo asked.

  “If I knew that, I would have made sure it didn’t happen. Anyway, the place there isn’t ours, per se. They ship for us, but it’s strictly a buy-sell relationship. Artie’s cousin helped us set it up. It’s just the timing makes me wonder. I’ve learned there’s no such thing as coincidence. And of course we’ll have to make up the loss somewhere, because there will be costs associated with this other thing. Let’s talk to our chemist friend—he had other ideas about products that could be laced.”

  * * *

  AFTER HE TALKED to his uncle Dom, Massimo called Dario. “Where are you, man?” he asked.

  “At my crib, getting ready for bed.”

  “Dude, it’s only, what?”

  “Massimo, it’s almost one o’clock. I work tomorrow.”

  “So do I. Listen, man, we gotta talk. I thought maybe we’d go to a club, see some naked chicks, grab a beer. What do you think?” Dario was a handsome guy, had grown up getting all the pussy he could handle, Massimo knew, but he was always on the lookout for more. Pussy, Massimo had told him many times, would be the death of him. Dario’s answer was always the same: “What a way to go, though.”

  “I don’t want to leave the house.”

  “I just came from a meeting that Papa had. About that poker game.”

  “I didn’t hear about it,” Dario replied.

  “High-level only,” Massimo said. “No soldiers. You’ll hear about it from your capo.”

  “So it’s like that? Your dad’s going back to those old ways?”

  “Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Look, I don’t want to talk about this stuff over the phone. I’ll come over in about twenty minutes. We’ll go out someplace and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

  “Okay,” Dario finally agreed. “I’ll get dressed and see you in a few.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Massimo pulled up outside Dario’s place. He wasn’t going to honk the horn, but then he did anyway. He was wired, as if all the blood in his body was shooting through his veins at ten times the normal speed. He wasn’t on anything except caffeine and adrenaline, but they were enough. He had raced over here, sixty on residential streets, fifty through a business district. All the cops in Cleveland were either in for the night or glomming doughnuts in some other neighborhood, so he made it without trouble. But as he waited for Dario, he was tapping his feet on the pedals and drumming his fingers on the wheel and moving his ass in the seat, and the only music was in his head, and the only lyric he heard was kill kill kill kill kill.

  Finally Dario came out. He wore a leather jacket over a dark T-shirt, jeans and black leather running shoes. He got in on the passenger side and buckled his seat belt. He was always a cautious one, Dario. They tapped fists.

  “Where you wanna go?” Dario asked.

  “Someplace we can get some boobs in our face,” Massimo said. He cranked the engine. The stereo blared hip-hop, and he turned it down, then put the car in gear.

  “So what happened at the meeting? Who was there?”

  Massimo filled him in. He told his friend everything—how he had felt knowing everybody in the room was talking about him, about the suggestions—snatching up members of other local criminal organizations and torturing them until they spilled. About the reward.

  Dario gave a low whistle. “Five million bucks?”

  “There’s no way Papa can put that together,” Massimo said. “Not right away. I mean, he’s got it, but it’s not all cash.” He pulled the car over to the curb. He had been driving down quiet suburban streets, most of the houses dark. Where he stopped, he was under the sweeping branches of a willow tree that blocked most of the light from the street lamps along the sidewalk.

  “We picking someone else up?” Dario asked. “This don’t look like no strip club.”

  “Yeah,” Massimo said. He pointed toward the nearest house, which he had never seen in his life. “She lives there.”

  “She?”

  “She’s a wild one, loves giving lap dances. Come on, let’s go get her.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Maybe we’ll never make it to the club.” Massimo grabbed his door handle, opened his door an inch or so. At the same time, Dario opened his door.

  As soon as Dario’s back was turned, Massimo looped a powerful arm around his neck from behind. Dario’s reaction was slow, as if he thought at first that the move was a playful one. “Sorry about this, bud,” Massimo said.

  In a way, he really was. He had always kind of liked Dario.

  But killing someone with his bare hands was something he hadn’t tried yet, and he’d been itching to do it. He grabbed his right arm with his left hand, cinching it tighter over Dario’s throat. The other man was struggling now, punching Massimo’s arm, kicking, trying to get out of the car. But Massimo had sixty pounds on him, and it was solid muscle. Dario couldn’t budge him, or break his grip.

  Dario tried to change tactics. He clawed at the .45 he kept in a shoulder rig. Massimo had anticipated the move, and he released his own right arm and jabbed his left thumb into Dario’s left eye. He felt something give under the sudden pressure, and Dario let out a choking cry of agony. His hands went to his face, the gun forgotten, and Massimo snaked it from the holster before he could remember. He dropped it on the floor at his feet.

  Dario’s kicking was becoming more urgent, but Massimo was having an easier time holding him in the car. He knew his friend was fading. Before the end, he released Dario and gave him a push.

  The man sputtered and choked and fell from the car. Massimo got out then, and walked around the vehicle. He found Dario on the other side, struggling to get to his hands and knees. He was barely able to lift his head to see his attacker, and when he did his face was purple and blotchy. Bright red blood flecked the corners of his mouth, and his left eye was seeping.

  He tried to say something, but got out only a croaking noise. Massimo t
ook a step toward him, then another, then, without breaking stride, drew back his right foot and aimed a vicious kick at Dario’s head.

  His boot caught his friend in the cheekbone. Massimo felt it give under the blow, and Dario’s head flew sideways. He collapsed in the grass between the curb and sidewalk. Massimo kicked him again, three times, each time feeling Dario’s skull coming apart, his head taking on an almost jellylike consistency. Finally Massimo stood right next to the other man, raised his knee chest-high and brought his foot down on the pulpy mass that had been the back of Dario’s head.

  “Not so handsome anymore, are you?” he asked.

  The corpse didn’t answer.

  Lights were starting to flicker on in the nearest couple of houses. Massimo got back into the car and closed his own door, and relied on centrifugal force from his sudden acceleration to close the other.

  That, he thought as he raced away, was awesome!

  14

  Bolan left the trailer parked behind the motel when he checked out in the morning. At some point, the motel’s owner would figure out that it had been abandoned there, and didn’t belong to any continuing guests. He didn’t mind driving the tractor—it was less discreet than he liked, but it had plenty of power and it gave him a good, elevated view of the road.

  He had an address in the Cleveland, Ohio, area for the manufacturer of Ivory Wave—the IW Labs printed on the packaging. According to the paperwork he had taken from Fowler, IW Labs was really a company called IW Bath. And according to Stony Man Farm, nobody was yet looking for the truck—but then, it would be a while, if ever, before Devilweed Inc. was organized enough to realize that one was missing. The bigger question might be what the other drivers would do with their trucks. Presumably, since the fire and then Fowler’s death had been all over the news, both last night and this morning, they had all heard that their boss and their home base were gone.

  The morning was bright and clear. It was the kind of morning when it would almost be possible to look around and think the world was a joyful, peaceful place. One could almost believe that one’s fellow citizens, one’s fellow human beings were good, honest people who cared for one another.