"We've found our weapons expert," Angela said.
Felicia took the.45, hit the button on it and the magazine popped out. She worked the slide to make sure the chamber was empty, then put the magazine back in.
"Who wants a drink while we wait for Gemma?" Angela asked. She led the way to the small wet bar and they fixed their own drinks.
Gemma came in a moment later, out of breath, hair flying, eyes dancing, and a small overnight case in one hand.
Gemma was the youngest of the group, nineteen, and had the lightest hair, a soft brown. She was waif thin, a music major at UCSD and the smartest of the girls. She was the daughter of the second-in-command to Don Marcello in the Family.
Angela spoke first when the women seated themselves around the coffee table. "I've talked to all of you about the way our parents are treating us. Be good and get married and get pregnant and have six kids, boys preferably. I'm damn sick and tired of it. Last night I told my father I wanted into the action, I wanted to work in one of the legit businesses he owns, and he told me to sit on it. Have the rest of you had similar problems?"
They all talked at once, and the story was the same. Mimi was the most furious. "Last week I told my father I wanted to get a job, anything. I wanted to do something. He laughed at me and said I should take a trip. I told him I've been everywhere, I want a job where I can be useful. He thought I was crazy."
Angela nodded. "If us four had been born with balls instead of breasts we'd be in the Family organization right now. We'd have been moving up in the organization, making good money, big money!"
"And we would have real power," Felicia said. "My brother, Frank, is only a year older than I am, and already he has Family responsibilities, and at work he has a whole department under him."
"I like that idea," Angela said. "Power. We want some power. We all have enough money, but we don't have respect as individuals, and we don't have any power. We are women who want power."
"What we need is a name," Mimi said. She frowned for a minute. "How about the Hard Corps?"
"I love it!" Angela screeched. "It will set the old-line mafiosi on fire with rage." She looked around the table. "Anyone have a better idea?"
"Go," Gemma said. "We've got our name, now what the hell are we going to do?"
"That's why we're here," Angela said. "When I was at Stanford one of our professors taught us how to write good proposals. He said you need to do three things to make a proposal work. You need to figure out your audience. Then when you know that, you aim your purpose at your audience. When you've targeted your audience and your purpose, you figure out what the content must be to do the job."
Gemma was writing. "So our audience is the polarized Family structure management. That part is easy. What exactly is our purpose? To convince the Family management that women can be productive members of the organization, that they must be given worthwhile and satisfying jobs in the business aspects of the Family, taking advantage of the various talents they have developed."
Felicia wailed. "I can see my father screaming right now. He would say for two hundred years La Cosa Nostra has been made up of 'Men of Honor. Now we want to change that to Men and Women of Honor. We'll get hooted down the first time we try to talk to them about it."
"Maybe we don't talk with words," Mimi said. She lifted the.45 and aimed at the window. "There are other ways to show them we can function in a man's world."
Gemma frowned. "I'm not up to being a hit man. It just isn't one of my talents."
Felicia held up her hands. "No. We don't have to be hit persons. All we have to do is convince the men that we can be effective in the operation, as well as being wives and mothers for the great Mafia."
"How?" Angela asked.
"That is what we are going to have to figure out before morning," Felicia said. "Now, who wants one more drink before we settle down to a working dinner?"
15
Immediately after work at Killinger's the next day, Johnny went to the hospital to take Karl home. An orderly wheeled a protesting Karl to the curb in a chair, and Johnny was surprised at how well Karl could walk before he climbed into the Bug.
"Hell, I got to get back to my boat. Poke and I need the work. Figure I'll be back out there in two or three days."
"Over my dead body," Johnny said. "Have you tried to lift your arms over your head? Go ahead, do it."
Karl did and groaned in pain.
"That upper chest is going to hurt for another week. You won't be gaffing many fish for a while. Now relax."
Karl stared out the window. At last he spoke. "Hey, could we stop for a six-pack on the way home? I'm out."
"I thought you decided to stay off booze for a while."
"Damn it, boy! Beer ain't drinking! If we don't stop now I'll just have to come out on my own."
Johnny stopped at a market, bought two six-packs of Coors and drove Karl to his apartment. They spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the place. Some of the furniture had to be junked. The landlord had been in to make an insurance claim. Both end tables and Karl's TV set were wrecked.
Johnny installed a dead bolt and put up a two-by-four wooden bar to barricade the door. He had just finished when Sandy arrived, lugging three dinner boxes of fried chicken.
While they ate, Johnny sensed that Karl was a little bit scared.
"I don't know what else they want me to do," he said at last. "Hell, I denied ever being south of the channel, told them I was north all day and never saw a thing." Then he looked at Sandy. "Hey, lady. Am I ever going to have any grandchildren?"
Sandy laughed. "Dad, we're not even married." She looked quickly at Johnny.
"Have you asked anybody to marry you lately?" Karl said, enjoying the teasing.
"Not lately," Sandy said. "Now can we change the subject?"
"Might as well."
"The first day you decide to go fishing, Karl, make it a tourist run," Johnny said. "I want to come along and help crew. Poke and I can let you play captain."
"Deal. I take on free crew whenever I can get one."
Johnny picked up the remains of the dinner and threw the boxes in the trash, then cleaned off the table. He watched Karl wince when he tried to stand. Johnny figured it should be another week before Karl took the boat out, but he knew Karl would do it before then.
Johnny and Sandy left half an hour later, just as Poke came up the steps carrying a bottle of Canadian Club. Johnny wished he had not brought it, but there was no polite way he could ask Poke to take it back to the car.
Poke promised to keep Karl quiet, and they parted.
The center was dark when he drove past, and no one stood at the outside door, so Johnny turned into the alley, parked and went upstairs. Sandy came up a minute later, after parking her Honda on the street. She stood near the door and stared at Johnny, then grinned and walked toward him slowly.
"I'm sorry if your father embarrassed you," Johnny said.
"He didn't embarrass me. It's just that we've never talked about it."
"About what?"
"About having children."
"Hey, we're getting ahead of ourselves. There's something we should do first." He put his arms around her and held her close. "I was thinking about it today. Maybe, sometime, we should talk about getting married."
"Talk about it, maybe, sometime," Sandy said. "That's not a lot of reassurance for a girl, is it?"
"Not one hell of a lot." He kissed her nose. "Look, let's sit on the couch and talk about it now."
"You don't have to. I hate to be pushy."
"You're not."
"I moved in without asking you."
"Wrong. You asked, I just never answered. As I remember, we found something else to do just then."
"Yeah!"
"So let's talk."
It was well past TV sign-off time when they finally decided they would get married. They were officially engaged. They set the date for September when Sandy had her vacation scheduled.
* * *
<
br /> The next morning at work in the Killinger law office, Johnny called one of his boss's contacts at the San Diego Police Department. He identified himself and asked the woman who answered to run a license-plate check for him. Johnny gave her the letters and numbers of the tag on the car Angela had driven the day before.
"That's registered to Hobart Enterprises Inc., 1919 Sixth Street, San Diego 92101," the woman told Johnny.
"Thank you," Johnny said and hung up.
He wrote the name down in a small notebook and went back to work on his official Killinger business. That morning he told Mr. Killinger he had made no further progress in his investigation of a tie-in with Willie the Peep.
"He's either keeping a low profile right now, or everyone is afraid to mention his name. What about some of the street informers we use? Could they get something for us on this?"
Killinger said it was an outside chance, but he would make some phone calls.
Now Johnny was back to his usual schedule, which meant he had all afternoon free. The first thing he did when he got back to the center was look up Hobart Enterprises in the phone book and call them.
"Good afternoon, this is Hobart Enterprises."
"Can you folks come out and fix my blocked sink?"
There was a cultured laugh on the other end of the wire. "No, I'm sorry, you must have a wrong number."
"Isn't this Hobart Plumbing?"
"No, this is Hobart Enterprises, we're an international, large-project, construction firm."
"Oh, sorry. Thanks." He hung up. International construction. Big money, that figured. He pushed the idea aside, but Angela kept filtering back into his thoughts. Soon her features began to merge with those of someone else. Then the mental image came into focus and he realized he was thinking of Sandy.
Damn, he had done it at last. Engaged! He felt no different, but there was a new sparkle in Sandy's eye. She would burst when he finally gave her a ring. He looked at his checkbook balance, then went downtown and found the best solitaire diamond he could afford. It came in a matched set and he wrote down the rest of the numbers so later they could get the wedding ring that went with it. Then he drove to Sandy's office and gave her the small plush velvet-lined box. She cried right there in front of her boss and the rest of the women.
She hugged him shyly and he turned and hurried out, knowing that he had barely escaped being hugged to death by the rest of Sandy's co-workers.
Back at the office he called Karl. There was no answer. Johnny frowned. Maybe Karl went down to get the paper, or to the convenience store for some milk.
Just after five-thirty Sandy came in and pulled him away from his desk.
"We're going out to dinner to celebrate!" she said. "I don't get an engagement ring every day."
Johnny blew fifty dollars on dinner at Le Chateau, and they made some plans for the future. They decided they would have only two kids and they would start saving for the down payment on a condo or a small house.
To cap the early evening they went past Karl's place to tell him the good news — that he might be a grandfather someday, after all.
Karl was not home.
They peered in the small window on the door, but could see little. They were just going down the steps when Karl came reeling off the sidewalk and up the path to his stairs.
"Hi, Karl," Johnny said.
"Hey, baby girl, and John! Qué pasó?"
"Not one hell of a lot, Karl. Need some help?"
"Course not!" He stumbled on the first step and fell to the wooden risers. "Damn."
Five minutes later they had Karl in his apartment. Sandy cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes.
"Karl, we talked about this, remember?"
"Just had a couple of beers, Johnny, honest."
"How long have you been over at Lewy's bar?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes, tops."
"You had breakfast here, Karl, but no lunch, no dinner. Have you been over there most of the day?"
"Well, got to go to bed," Karl mumbled. Johnny helped him into the bedroom.
"We have to get you sober enough to take out the boat tomorrow," Johnny said.
"Can't do it."
"Sure you can. Poke and I will do the work, you just sit up there in the cabin and play skipper."
"Can't do it. I won't be sober by tomorrow morning."
"You can try, Karl. We can't have you trolling in the bars anymore. You might catch a Mafia ear somewhere."
"Can't go out. Poke is crewing on a six-day long range down to San Benitos on the Qualifier 105."
"Damn, you're right. I don't know how to run your boat well enough." Johnny scowled. He thought a moment and shrugged. "So, no sweat. I'll meet you here at one-thirty and we'll go down and do a little painting on that scow of yours. It can always use some new paint, somewhere."
Karl looked up. There were tears in his eyes.
"Thanks, Johnny. I got this little problem when I'm on shore too long. I'll be near sober by noon."
When they left they took all but two bottles of beer, and all the whiskey bottles they could find in the cupboards. Johnny felt helpless. Every time Karl had a drink now he was like walking dynamite. All he had to do was say the wrong thing about spotting that smuggling offshore and the Mafia hit men would light his fuse.
16
Mack Bolan had called Carlo Genovese right on schedule the previous evening and set up the meet. It would be in either of their cars at Jackson Park Beach, just off 57th Street on the lakeshore. Bolan had said he would be standing by the taco stand at the far end of the parking lot at precisely 10:00 A. M.
The Executioner had agreed to the meet and said they could go from there to one of the vehicles to test the goods. Bolan had been up at six as usual, made a purchase at a grocery store and drove to the park off 57th Street to check the lay of the land. "Any tactical maneuver depends on the situation and the terrain." Bolan had used that bit of Army training again and again in his private wars. Now he studied the taco stand and the surrounding area. It was the type with drive-through service and two concrete table-bench combinations in front.
The stand was actually outside the playground, but served the parking lot and the street on the other side. Bolan decided the best position for his car would be in the street near the taco stand for an easier withdrawal.
He circled and found a spot two cars down from the taco stand. The Tempo was pointing away from the street's dead end.
Quickly he put together the rest of his plan. He was certain that Carlo Genovese would have heard about Jake Spanno's wipeout, but would Genovese connect it with a coke seller? He might. Mario Montessi was supposed to attend the meet as well, but he could be hiding out somewhere.
Bolan guessed Montessi would let Genovese take the risks. Bolan was not ready to waste Genovese yet. The small man with the big smile was his ticket upstairs to the czar of the Chicago drug trade. The czar was Bolan's main target in Chicago. All the rest were warm-ups for him. In a week of digging he had found no name of the top man. He was protected a dozen ways. Somehow the Executioner had to break through the secrecy.
Bolan stood at the taco stand sipping cola as he waited. He wore the same open-throated shirt and sport coat as the day before for recognition value. A brown paper sack sat on the concrete table beside him. It was five after ten and he knew they were watching him, discussing whether to blow him away. But they wouldn't if they felt he could produce the stopgap supply they needed. He knew Genovese decided on a meet in the open, just in case this «Vito» character had set up some kind of trap. The Mob took no chances.
Montessi himself sauntered up five minutes later, bought a drink at the stand, then sat beside Bolan.
"That the shit in the sack?"
"Could be. Where's Carlo?"
"Waiting. I give him a sign or you get your socks blown off. Is that the goods?"
Bolan picked up the sack. "Yeah, a sealed sample. Let's go."
"Trusting son of a bitch."
"Ab
out the way you trust me. It's good business. This a deal?"
"Deal. But I already voted to waste you, bastard."
They walked side by side across the parking lot to the street. They stopped two cars in front of Bolan's Ford near a big blue Caddy that had not been there before.
The left rear door swung open but nobody got out.
"Get in, we go for a ride and test," Montessi said.
Bolan leaned over and peered into the Caddy. The usual glass partition halfway down, a jump seat where a small man with glasses sat and Genovese on the far side of the big seat.
Bolan began to bend over to get in. His right hand snaked under his jacket and when it came out he turned and shot Montessi twice in the chest. Then he tracked the 93-R on Genovese, stepped into the car and slammed the door shut.
"Drive!" Bolan snapped.
The wheelman looked at Genovese, whose forehead was now covered with a thin line of sweat. He nodded and the car moved forward.
"Keep this rig moving or all three of you are dead. Driver, toss your hardware in back."
The driver did as he was told. Bolan's advantage was that he had walked right into the devil's lair, canceling his enemies' plans to eliminate him should he behave unusually. Indeed he was behaving unusually, sure, but to such a degree that he had just blown away his target's ability to act.
"Who is this?" Bolan asked, motioning with the Beretta at the man wearing the glasses.
"A chemist, he's not a made man," Genovese said. "He works for us sometimes."
Bolan held out his hand. Slowly Genovese took a short-barreled.38 from his shoulder holster and gave it to Bolan.
"Your hideout!" the Executioner demanded.
Carefully Genovese lifted a.25-caliber automatic from an ankle holster and pushed it across the seat to Bolan.
Bolan poked the silenced Beretta 93-R into the chemist's chin. He forced it upward painfully until the man lifted off his jump seat.
"Do you want to stay alive?"
The chemist nodded.
"I want your word that you won't breathe any of this for twenty-four hours. Agreed?"
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