"Looked as if somebody napalmed the place," the witness said.
Angela grinned as she prepared for bed. It had been quite an awakening for her. The trip with her father, the breakthrough with the store and wiping out her toughest competitor even before she took over management! She wished she had someone to share her bed tonight.
Angela fell asleep dreaming about Johnny Gray.
* * *
The next morning, Johnny whizzed through his paralegal work for Killinger. The lawyer was going to spend all day in court. Johnny took off an hour early and hurried to Karl Darlow's place. He was pleased to find him sober.
"Ready to chip paint, swabby?" Karl asked. Johnny nodded and half an hour later they were on board the Flying Fool. Johnny stripped off his shirt and began to sand down the rear section of the mahogany rail.
Johnny could tell Karl was feeling better. His chest slashes were healing and he was humming tunelessly as he painted the forward bait tank on the bow, out of the way of the dust. Johnny finished the rail section and applied a coat of the special marine varnish.
"Anyone else visited you?" Johnny asked.
Karl shook his head. "Nope. Just as soon never see any of them again. Got me a boat to run. Damn, I sure hate missing this week of catches. The fish count has been way up on the sport boats. I could have made a bundle this week."
They worked the afternoon away. Johnny topped up his tan and Karl managed to do a few maintenance chores that he usually never had time for. At four o'clock Johnny said he had to leave. Karl never asked why. Johnny took the sea captain home and made him promise not to go out boozing.
At four-thirty Johnny parked his VW near the exit ramp of the Security Pacific Bank Plaza building. There was a good chance he might spot that light blue Pontiac driven by the thug who carved Karl.
He hunched down behind the wheel of the Bug and waited. If the car did not show up by five-thirty he would call off the watch.
At precisely 4:45 p.m. the blue Pontiac slid down the ramp, paused to clear traffic and turned toward him. Johnny confirmed the license plate. The driver was a big guy wearing a blue suit and vest. The VW fired on the first try and Johnny rolled into traffic two cars behind the Pontiac. It was rush hour, a bad time to try to tail a car.
Johnny's quarry appeared to be in no hurry. He cruised up to the freeway, took U.S. 5 north to the Grand Avenue off ramp, made a half dozen turns and parked in front of a small white house a block back from the surf at Pacific Beach. It was not a high-rent district, except in the summer. Johnny stopped half a block back and wrote down the number of the house. So far, so good.
Johnny drove to a filling-station phone booth and called his real-estate friend. Pete had a telephone directory that listed the city by streets. It took him about a minute to find the address in his directory.
"Yeah, Johnny, phone number there is 543–4545. Last known resident was Ted Young, and that was only about three months ago. Could be the same one."
"Thanks, Pete. I owe you one."
Johnny got back into his car and drummed fingers on the wheel. What now? He had an address, a possible name and a telephone number.
He went back to the phone and tried the police id section again. Nancy Carter was just coming on the evening shift.
"Boy, when it rains…"
"Nancy, I've got a name. Could you check him for wants and warrants?"
"Johnny, you know…" She stopped. "Hell, what's the name?"
He held the line and in three minutes she returned with the information. "Ted Young, a real sweetheart. He's had six arrests, no convictions. Last arrest was for assault and battery. His lawyer got him off due to insufficient evidence. All charges were dropped. Two witnesses failed to testify. Oh, his lawyer is an interesting guy, too. Artie 'The Flake' Dancini. You should know all about him. He's the local mafiosi's favorite mouthpiece."
"That fits in nicely, Nancy. That's two lunches I owe you."
"Story of my life, promises."
"Maybe I'll keep them."
"Maybe. Got to go. Bye."
She hung up and Johnny called a florist he knew. He ordered an arrangement of cut flowers delivered to Nancy Carter in the id section of the SDPD the next day after five. That should take care of one lunch.
Johnny stared at the phone after he hung it up. Should he call Mr. Killinger and ask him about Dancini? He decided against it. Dancini was Mafia, so his client was Mafia, which meant for sure it was a Mob attack on Karl.
Johnny felt frustrated. Here was a hoodlum who deserved some payback and there was no way Johnny could do it, not without endangering Karl even more. He fumed all the way back to the Free Legal Aid Center. Someday things would be different. Someday he was going to have the method and the opportunity to strike back at these people. There had to be a way to stop them, or at least slow them down.
For just a fleeting second Johnny knew how Mack must have felt, must still feel. The thought gave him renewed strength as he drove back to the legal aid center. He had time to talk to three people there before the center closed.
When he reached his apartment, a little past nine that evening, Johnny found dinner ready.
"I had a call from daddy," Sandy said. "He was tired out and growling. He sounded great!"
"He worked me too hard. I've got dust in my hair." Johnny kissed Sandy and returned her hug. "Did he sound like he'd been drinking?"
"Nope. I told him not to touch a drop. I just hope he doesn't."
As they ate Sandy watched him. "You mad about something? You've got that strange look."
"Sorry, I'm not mad at you, or Karl."
"What then?"
He told her about finding the man he was sure had slashed Karl.
"And we can't do a damn thing about it, can we?" Sandy asked.
"Right," Johnny said. "So we just grin and bear it and hope the Mafia forgets all about Karl Darlow."
Sandy put down her fork and stared at Johnny. "If they hurt daddy again, I'll find out who they are and kill them myself."
Johnny reached across the table and held her hand. "Hey, it's all going to work out fine. Karl is staying home and holding down the boozing, and the Mafia are going to realize he didn't see enough to matter." He became pensive for a moment and finally blurted out what was really on his mind. "I want to know what other businesses the Mafia own in this town."
"I bet Ira would know," Sandy offered. She could feel the urgency of his concern.
"You mean your old boyfriend who was a crime writer on the newspaper?"
Sandy nodded. "If we really want to know we could call him at the paper. He works the morning edition. He'd probably still be there." She left the table and walked over to the phone. "In fact I think I'll ask him."
She dialed the number.
"Ira Blake, please."
A moment later she smiled. "Ira, Sandy Darlow. It's good to hear your voice again. How are you?" After the amenities were over, she turned and winked at Johnny.
"Ira, I need a favor. I've got a friend who is interested in the Mafia in San Diego. Could you answer a few questions for him?" She paused. "Great. His name is Johnny. Here he is."
Johnny took the phone. "Ira. I understand you're the Mafia expert in town."
"Thanks, some might say that."
"I hear they've gone legit. Is that true?"
"They had to, to stay alive. The climate wasn't right for hoodlum warfare."
"What about Philmore Industries, a holding company? Is that one of them?"
"You're well informed."
"Do you have anything else?"
"Sure, Marcello Trucking, Big M Bowlero, Hobart Enterprises, one of the biggest international construction firms in the world, even Leisure Lady shops, twenty-six of them up and down the coast."
"Go on."
"We keep turning up more and more of them all the time. Sometimes we tumble by the lawyer they use on their really important stuff."
"Like a guy called Arturo Dancini?"
"Uh-huh.
You know a lot about these hoods. You writing a book?"
"Not really. Thanks for the help."
"Anytime. You take good care of Sandy."
"I plan to."
They hung up. Johnny had written down the names that Ira told him, and he concentrated on Hobart Enterprises. That was the registered owner of the Mercedes that Angela drove. He remembered she had said it was her father's car.
Johnny was puzzled.
"Johnny, what's the matter? What did Ira tell you?"
"Oh, I was just thinking how a Mafia hoodlum could run a dress shop. Those Leisure Lady shops, did you know the Mafia owns them? The whole chain may be a money-laundering setup."
Johnny frowned. Angela whatever-her-name-was had said that the car belonged to her father. For a company to give an executive one car was normal enough, but two, one for his daughter? That would mean Angela's father had to be a big shot in the firm.
He was glad she had refused to give him her phone number. Now he could ignore her, or be busy the next time she called.
He wished that he had never followed up on her license number.
It might have been better not to know.
20
Mack Bolan drove back to the motel to check on his captive. Carlo Genovese was still sleeping. Bolan walked over to the bed, shook the Mafia coordinator awake and removed the bandage from his mouth.
Genovese looked up, groggy and confused by his surroundings. His glazed eyes wandered around the room for a few moments, then came to rest on the granite-etched face of the Executioner.
"Welcome back from the dead, Carlo," Bolan said. "Ready to take me to your boss?"
"No way. You can't make me talk."
"I know everything, Carlo. You told me earlier."
"I told you where my boss is? Not a chance." Then it became clear to Genovese that he had been drugged.
"That damn needle! I still won't go with you. The boys'll cut you down before you get halfway up."
"Uh-uh." Bolan shook his head. "Because you're going to be right beside me."
Genovese snorted. "Why do you need me if you've got the info?"
"Insurance, Carlo. Now move."
Bolan removed the tape from Genovese's arms and legs. The Mafia hoodlum stood up to stretch his legs, rubbing his wrists.
Bolan swung up the weapons case that he had brought from the car onto the night table. Now he flipped it open and Genovese looked inside.
"You going to start a war?"
"It's already started." Bolan looked at the handguns, the Uzi, the.44 AutoMag, boxes of rounds and six fragmentation hand grenades nestled in pockets cut out of urethane-foam padding.
Bolan worked out his plan. The approaches to the high-rise residence would be patrolled and under surveillance by TV monitors. So it had to look natural.
Bolan ordered the mobster to sit, picked up one of the grenades and pulled the safety pin.
"You know how these work, Carlo? All that's keeping this thing from exploding is the arming handle. You're going to hold it down, or we die. Understand?"
The Executioner grabbed the mafioso's left hand and gave him the grenade, making sure his fingers closed around the arming handle.
Sweat broke out on Genovese's forehead as he stared at the explosive. His knuckles were white from the pressure he exerted on the handle.
Bolan ripped up the bed sheet and fashioned a sling, which he tied around Genovese's neck, slipping his right arm into it. Then the Executioner taped the right fist closed so Genovese could not use it. Afterward he bound the arm tightly to the mobster's chest.
Genovese was trembling. Bolan grabbed his left hand, and pushed the cotter pin back in place to make the bomb safe again. Genovese collapsed in the chair. He shook as if he was having a seizure.
"Stand up, Carlo. We're going out to the car."
Bolan wore the blue sport coat that hid a variety of weapons. Big Thunder was on his hip, the silenced Beretta 93-R nestled in shoulder leather. The Uzi was a little harder to conceal, but with the plan he had in mind he figured he might be able to get away with it. He attached a cord to the weapon and slung it around his neck, the machine pistol covered by his jacket.
In his pockets he stuffed two more standard U.S. Army-issue hand grenades. Bolan wished he could wear his combat webbing, but for this job he had to look the part of a normal civilian.
Satisfied with his arsenal, Bolan growled, "Let's go. Any sudden moves and I drop you where you stand."
Half an hour later Bolan parked in a loading zone outside the Towers building, which was away from the main downtown area.
"Which entrance?"
"The one on this side. We're in the north tower."
"Do we have to sign in?"
"No, the guard knows me. I often come at odd hours."
"Good. Out of the car."
Bolan took the grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin.
Genovese shivered when Bolan raised the mafioso's arm and placed the grenade under it. There was no way to fake it. Bolan made sure Genovese saw the arming spoon was free and ready to pop. He placed the handle directly against the mobster's side, then eased his arm down until the pressure held the grenade and its triggering spoon in place.
"Now you're the original walking bomb, Carlo. You get me up to the apartment and I take the bomb out and you live."
"Oh, shit!"
"Try to act cool, Carlo, or the guard might become suspicious. Here's the pitch. You had a car wreck and you're giving me a cash reward because I helped you."
They went up the steps and through an electronically opened door. The guard was stationed directly ahead, staring at the pair, the big dude walking half a pace back from Genovese, whose body almost concealed the tall guy's.
"Mr. Genovese! What happened to your arm?"
"Car crash," Genovese snapped.
"Anything I can do?"
Genovese shook his head.
They walked past the guard to the bank of elevators and entered in the one marked floors 30 to 40.
"What's the layout upstairs?" Bolan asked as he punched the thirty-fourth-floor button.
"Long hall. L-shape. We're at the far end, corner suite. We have twelve rooms. Only entrance is last door 3401. Inside the front door is a desk manned by one of our boys. The guard downstairs has already buzzed the room that we're coming up. The hallways have closed-circuit TV with a monitor in the sentry's office down below and also at the guard station upstairs."
"How's the grenade? You holding it nice and tight?"
"I think my arm is getting numb. What happens then?"
"You die, I guess."
The elevator stopped and the door opened. The hall extended a hundred feet ahead, then turned left. No one was in sight. They walked to the corner and when they went around it a man with a.45 pointed it at Bolan and looked over at Genovese.
"Whimp, what the hell you doing?" Genovese bellowed, sounding tired and angry.
"Tony downstairs said you didn't look right, and that you had company. We don't take no chances, you know that. What happened to you?"
"Totaled my car. Broke my arm and bruised my leg. How the hell you want me to look after that?"
"Who's your buddy? I ain't never seen him before. I thought we better…"
"Whimp, you ain't paid to think. This man helped get me out of my smashed car and took me to the hospital. Probably saved my life. I said I'd give him five hundred, but I don't have that much on me. We came back here to get the rest."
"Fine, but I better pat him down, you know the rules."
"Whimp, right now I'm making the rules!" Genovese's voice went up several notes. "I want a bottle of bourbon and some ice. But open the door first. Then get four hundred from the cash drawer. Now move!"
Whimp nodded, turned and walked down the hall.
At the door, Whimp knocked twice, then opened the panel when it unlocked.
Bolan held the door as Whimp went in, followed by Genovese. They were in a reception room. A heavyset
man sat at a desk directly across from the door. He had a.38 in his hand but put it down when he saw Genovese.
Bolan used the mobster as cover to draw the Beretta. He shot the desk guard in the head and whirled, pumping three silenced rounds at Whimp. He staggered backward and hit the floor.
Genovese was cowering against a wall afraid to move in case he triggered the grenade. Bolan motioned him forward.
"Now, your boss's apartment. No funny moves and keep quiet. Any more guards on duty this time of night?"
"One man will come on at 4:00 a.m."
"Good. Move it."
Genovese walked along the hall, turned down a corridor that led toward the outside of the building. He came to a door with the numeral one stenciled on it.
"This is it," Genovese said.
Bolan took out a pick, positioned Genovese where he could see him and quietly worked on the lock. In twenty seconds he had the tumblers positioned correctly. He turned the knob and peered in the dark room.
"How many hardmen inside?"
"None. The boss is alone."
"Come on, you're first."
Bolan caught Genovese's arm and pushed him into the room. It was partly lit by soft night lamps. As soon as Genovese stepped on the carpet an alarm went off. A strobe light pulsed, brilliant flashes stabbing into the large living room.
The drug coordinator huddled against the wall next to the door, his face wild with fear.
A black streak hurtled out of the darkness, bypassed the quivering man cringing against the wall and sprang directly at Bolan's throat. Slavering white fangs were bared as the living missile streaked toward its target.
Bolan got off two shots before the sixty-pound Doberman plowed into him.
Strong jaws clamped around his forearm, but as Bolan rolled with the animal, he felt the jaws relax and the animal fall away. The lead messengers had found their mark. To kill a killer dog triggered no crisis of compassion in Bolan.
A light snapped on down a short hall to the left and a man in pajama bottoms rushed out, staring into the dimness of the living room. He was not much more than twenty, blond, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist.
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