"Who the hell are you?" the woman asked when she noticed Bolan.
"Someone you don't want to know," Bolan replied, palming the Beretta.
Her face lost some of its angry flush and she blanched with fear.
"Well, if it isn't a good cop," she moaned. "But I've paid my dues for the month."
The man beside her whirled with a gun in his hand. Bolan triggered a round from the Beretta. The bodyguard wailed in pain and sank to the floor. The woman pulled a six-inch blade and rushed the Executioner. Bolan sidestepped her and kicked the knife out of her hand.
"I'll kill you!" the woman shrieked.
"You're through ma'am," Bolan said.
He took a WP grenade from his utility bag, pulled the safety pin and caught both her hands. He let the arming handle pop off the grenade, then thrust the grenade into her hands.
She was still staring at it as Bolan surged away from her and through a door. He was barely behind the protective wall when the bomb went off with a whump, spewing bits of the thin shell in every direction, splattering the furiously burning phosphorus in a circle.
The blobs of white puttylike substance blasted into the drug supplier's body and face. She screamed in agony as the sticky substance burned furiously, eating holes into her flesh, tracing a fiery path of destruction past her ribs and on through her heart.
She had slumped to the floor unconscious within seconds after the WP grenade exploded. Fire was already consuming the ceiling from the second-floor blaze.
Bolan had bolted for the back door, slid out through the opening and vaulted over a six-foot-high fence across the back of the lot and into the alley. He jogged to his car as neighbors came out to look at the growing fire.
Only then did he hear the sirens as two police cruisers ripped past him, skidded around the corner and raced up to the burning house. Then he heard the fire engine.
The Executioner settled back and drove to the motel where he'd left Carlo Genovese. It would soon be time to make his move on the kingpin of Chicago's drug trade.
Time was a commodity in Bolan's favor. He looked at it this way: he had the rest of his life.
18
The small chiming clock in Angela Marcello's living room struck three musical notes. Angela stood up and stared at the three young women lounging around the table. All were awake, in various stages of undress because they simply felt more comfortable that way. Angela had discarded her blouse an hour before and her pink sculptured bra almost matched her skin tone.
"I think we have reached the point of no return," she announced. "It's good management practice to push for a decision, but we have made several, and we'll all think about our main objective. Recap: We will henceforth be known as the Hard Corps." She giggled and the others joined in. "But this is damn serious business," she added. "We have all pledged not to get married for a year, and we will not make the mistake of getting pregnant."
Angela looked around. Gemma nodded seriously. Felicia yawned, but smiled her approval. Mimi whispered, "Damn right!"
"We will all do some thinking tomorrow and meet at Mimi's house in two nights to battle out a money-making scheme that will impress our parents. We've agreed that to be effective this venture must be illegal, something down and dirty."
"Now can we go to bed?" Gemma asked.
"Right. The couch folds into a bed for two and somebody bunks with me."
Felicia stared at Angela as she unhooked her bra.
"Boy, you've got big tits!" Felicia said.
Angela frowned at her. "No more of this 'boy' and 'tits' sexist crap. From now on we're going to have to act like we have balls, so let's start thinking like goddamn Mafia soldiers."
* * *
None of the girls got up before eleven the next day, and after breakfast each scurried home. The rest of the day Angela tried to come up with a good racket to make a lot of money fast, the good old Mafia way.
Outside of selling her body by the hour she was stumped. She decided to make one more attack on her father when he came home. She would suggest he let her take over one of the Leisure Lady boutiques.
Manny "The Mover" Marcello did not get home that day until dinner was ready to be served, so Angela could not waylay him until he was in his library watching the all-news TV station. She walked to the set, turned it off and stood in front of it.
"Daddy, I'm going to be like a bad migraine headache until you see my side of things. I want a job in one of your companies. I just want an ordinary management job where I can use all of those business practices I learned at Stanford."
Don Marcello had been through a tough day. "Angela, we talked that out already," he grunted.
"You might have, I didn't. I'm just getting started. You sent me to get my M. B. A., so I could learn how to make money. I have. I can. Why won't you let me show you? How about letting me run the Leisure Lady outlet in La Jolla? I can have it making more money in two months."
Don Marcello lit a cigar, put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his big chair.
"Making money? How much profit do you think those dress sellers make in a year? Sometimes it's not enough to take care of the overhead. But we don't care. We use them to launder some of our other money, the kind we can't just run to a bank and deposit. Do you realize that any cash deposit of over $5,000 must be reported to the federal government? But when we put the money through several of our business firms no report is made, and there are no problems. Did they teach you that in your fancy business school?"
"Then what difference does it make how the shops are run or who runs them? Let me have one to play with, please!"
"Maybe I should teach you a lesson," Don Marcello said half to himself. "Maybe I should let you know where all those fancy clothes, cars, schools and trips come from. Yeah, why not? You think you've got balls enough to be a soldier, do you? You think you should be a capo just because you wear my last name? All right. At eight o'clock tonight I have a job to do. I want you to come. Wear some pants that aren't skintight and cover up your boobs so you don't look like a bimbo, and wear dark glasses. You got all that?"
"Right. I'll be ready!" Angela whirled and ran out the door.
Once in her room she leaned against the door and hugged herself. At last! She was going to get to see the inside of the workings of a real operation!
Angela quivered with excitement. She put on one of her old bras and tightened the straps. She wore a heavy blouse that was full and loose, and a dark poplin jacket. It was hard to tell she was a girl. From the back of her closet she found some slacks she had used four or five years before. They were the loose, baggy style and she slid into them. Now, not a curve showed. She found sunglasses, the kind with reflective lenses, and tucked her hair under a mannish-style hat. Great! She wiped off all her lipstick and eye shadow and the rest of her makeup.
She was waiting outside her father's study at five minutes to eight when he came out. Don Marcello looked at her, nodded his approval and motioned for her to follow him. He went through the front door first. It was the first time she could think of that he did not hold the door for her. Then she remembered: tonight she was just one of the men, and he was Don Marcello.
They took one of the big Cadillac crew wagons. Her father rode in front and she sat between four soldiers in the back seat. The men looked at her suspiciously but they made no protests.
The limo headed out of La Jolla and down the freeway to National City, where it turned off into an industrial section near San Diego bay. A moment later they stopped inside a yard with the name Warner Trucking over a big warehouse door.
Two of the men faded to the front of the building. One went to the dispatcher's office, which was empty and dark. Two more checked the back door, before signalling to the car.
Only then did Manny the Mover come out of the crew wagon and hurry inside the building. Angela ran to keep pace with him. The two pistoleros led the way to an upstairs office. The first goon kicked the door open, smashing the panel, almost knocking it
off its hinges.
"What the hell?" said Bob Warner, the owner of the trucking company, looking up from his desk where he was engrossed in a stack of invoices.
"Just a little chat, Warner," Manny grunted, looking down at the other man. Warner was average height, about fifty years old, with a modest belly, tired-looking eyes behind glasses and a fringe of graying hair around a balding head.
"And your goons ruin my door so we can talk?"
"Nothing personal, you understand. Just business. You're cutting into my trade in the south bay, Warner. I don't like it. I want that Farmington account back."
Warner laughed. One of the soldiers stepped forward and backhanded him in the face. Warner jolted to one side but did not tip over in the swivel chair.
"Now, as I was about to say, you will default on that account. It's for thirty semis a day and you just can't spare the rigs. Do I make myself clear?"
"Fuck you, Marcello!"
The goon began to move ahead but Manny held up his hand.
"Warner, with me it ain't personal. But my boys like to kick ass a bit. I ain't never liked that. Why can't you just take it as a business loss and forget it?"
"I don't like to be pushed around by the Mob, by anyone," Warner snarled. "I just don't like that kind of pressure."
"You're a stubborn bastard. How the hell can I convince you?"
Manny turned and walked around the office. Warner stood up and took a step toward his desk. The soldier who hit Warner pushed him back.
The truck company boss moved so fast, he took the Mafia goon completely by surprise. Warner clamped his forearm over the opened hand on his chest and leaned forward, bending the soldier's fingers backward. The guncock screamed and fell to his knees to relieve the pressure. Warner's right knee raced upward into the man's jaw, and knocked him to the floor unconscious.
The second soldier fisted a huge.45 and pushed off the safety.
"Don't move!" he snarled.
Angela stood at the back of the room, watching it all. She felt a touch of fear, but it quickly dissolved as she watched the drama unfold. She was fascinated.
"This is your last chance, Warner. Tell me you'll forget the Farmington account."
"That's half my business! I just bought twelve new trucks to handle it."
"Better to lose a little money than to die. Think about it."
Manny motioned to the goon with the.45.
"The left knee," Manny ordered.
The sound of the handgun cracked in the confines of the room and Warner fell to the floor as the slug shattered his kneecap. He lay writhing in agony, blood leaking through his fingers.
"Bastard!" he screamed.
"Nothing personal, Warner. Just business. You ready to give up that account now?"
A film of sweat covered Warner's forehead. He spoke slowly, his eyes beginning to glaze as the blood loss sapped his strength.
"I swear you'll pay for this, Marcello."
Manny motioned to his thug again. The man who had shot Warner stepped forward and let fly a kick at the wounded knee.
Warner's eyes rolled upward, and spittle drooled out of his mouth. The unbearable pain sent his body into shock and his head lolled from side to side, the motion gradually diminishing until the man lay still.
Angela could swear she saw a smile on Warner's face. Torture! It was wild, but fascinating, too.
Her father's voice broke into her reverie.
"Downstairs," Don Marcello said. The first soldier, who had been out cold, staggered up and the group exited through a rear door.
Two big semi highway tractor rigs were parked in the center of the large yard. From the trunk of the crew wagon a soldier brought two gasoline cans. He emptied one in each of the two truck cabs, removed the diesel fuel-tank caps and then threw a lighted book of matches into each cab.
The gasoline fumes erupted with a whump as they burst into flames.
Manny watched for a moment, then walked to his car and sat in the back seat. He motioned to Angela, who joined him in the vehicle and soon the car drove out the gate toward San Diego.
Manny flicked on the limo's rear dome light. He was surprised by the expression on her face. Her face was animated, her eyes bright and glistening with excitement. Her fingernails dug into his arm.
Manny "The Mover" Marcello, Don of the San Diego Family, sighed. What kind of a daughter had he sired? She had reacted differently than he expected. He had been sure she would be screaming and begging him to stop the lesson.
"I still wish you were my son," he said.
If he gave her the store he could transfer the manager to another outlet. When Angie tired of the job he would put the manager back. Yes. That would work, and keep Angie busy for a while. In the meantime he was going to pick out a husband for her. That would be his ultimate weapon to keep Angie out of his business for good.
Manny picked up his daughter's hand and kissed it. "Little princess, tomorrow morning you become the manager of the boutique in La Jolla. Will that make you happy?"
"As a start, daddy, as a start." She reached over and kissed his cheek, and as she did she thought of balding truck owner, Warner, screaming in pain. It gave her a throb of sexual pleasure.
19
As soon as Angela returned to the Marcello mansion, she called her three friends and told them the news. She spoke to Mimi first, explaining how she had broken through her father's reluctance.
"It's not exactly what we want, but it's a toehold. A base we can use to build into something else. And our meeting is still on for tomorrow night."
After she had called all three, she sat at her desk with a pad and pencil and jotted down every idea she could come up with. The first on the list was prostitution, then she kept writing.
When she had eleven ideas down she stared at the paper. Most of the ideas were already in use by the Family. Drugs, women and gambling were the keystones of almost every Mafia family.
Angela was stumped. Which plan? All the Hard Corps needed was one good idea. Then they would have some heavy ammunition to throw at the Men of Honor.
She took a long shower, thinking about the trucking company man bleeding on his office floor. She shivered with excitement just remembering it. Once out of the bathroom, she draped on her robe and pondered her new status as manager of the Leisure Lady shop.
All she had to do was double the profits in the first month. How could she do that? She thought through all of the business management methods she had learned and decided to use many of them, but they would only increase profits and sales by two to ten percent. She needed something dramatic.
"What about getting rid of any competition?" she said aloud.
Angela smiled. Perfect. There were other small stores that specialized in clothing for the wealthy of La Jolla. If they were to have unexpected setbacks, it would give her store a big jump in sales.
She checked her watch. It was only a little after ten. She dressed quickly in the same outfit she had worn when she accompanied her father earlier that evening.
In the garage she found two full gasoline cans. She stored them in the trunk of her new 380SL and drove back out of the garage. There was no problem about her going or coming at odd hours. The guard made sure who she was, then opened the heavy metal gate.
Her destination was the Chic Salon, a high-class ladies' wear shop wedged between a department store and a beauty parlor. The store was the best of its kind in town. She parked across from the building for a moment, studying the layout. The rear would be easier, but she could do the most damage in front. She finally decided on the back, hoping it would get a good fire started.
She parked a block from the store, at the end of the alley. When she was certain there were no passersby, she took the two gas cans and walked quickly to the delivery door of the Chic Salon. She poured out the fluid and watched as it ran under the door and inside the store. Quickly she emptied both containers.
Angela's fingers trembled as she struck the first match from the book, t
hen lit the remaining paper matches as she had seen the guncock do earlier. She stepped back a few paces and tossed the matchbook on the puddle of gasoline at the base of the door. The flames raced forward and under the door and Angela turned and ran.
She made it just past the first building when she heard the explosion. It was more powerful than any she had ever imagined. Half the sky seemed to light up, and the sound of the huge conflagration crackled around her. She hurried out of the alley. Then she slowed her pace to avoid suspicion and casually walked the half block to her car. Angela stepped into her Mercedes, started it and drove slowly away from the raging fire behind her.
Her hands were shaking as she parked three blocks down on Prospect. She could see the glow of the fire but no actual flames. Sirens screamed as firetrucks plowed past her. A pair of San Diego police cars roared by. The sight of the city cops startled her.
There was no chance of driving past the burning store. By now the street would be barricaded two blocks each way and crisscrossed with fire hoses.
Angela tried to relax. The first hint of a smile broke through the stiffness of her face and she giggled. The Chic Salon was no longer quite so chic. The gasoline vapors must have blown to the front of the store when they exploded. Now, Manny Marcello, that was the way a member of the Hard Corps made sure that her business made money!
She drove back up the hill to her father's fortresslike mansion. One thought plagued her. Fingerprints on the cans? No, the fire would have burned both cans into twisted hulks. There would be no evidence, no way anyone could tie her to the fire.
Back home, inside her rooms, Angela sat cross-legged on her bed watching the late show. There was a news flash about the incident, but reporters were unable to provide any details other than that the fire damage had been confined to the Chic Salon, which was a total loss. Firemen were unable to determine how the fire had started or spread so quickly. One man across the street said the front windows blew out and suddenly the whole store was a sheet of flames.
Resurrection Day Page 14