This time he paid for the call himself and Turrin’s crisp, wide-awake voice sounded pretty good to a tired and lonely warrior. Bolan told him, “Sorry to get you out of bed.”
“In a blizzard yet,” Turrin replied. “Temp in this phone booth right now is I guess about 69 below zero. You got snow there?”
Bolan chuckled and replied, “Plenty. Plus many warmer activities.”
“Yeah, we’re getting the vibrations all the way over here. You’re rousting them pretty good, but listen—that’s big-city you’re fooling with now. Trying to bust New York is about equal to marching into Hanoi. You watch your step. Uh, what’s on your mind?”
“I got to wondering about John-O.” Bolan was referring to his kid brother, the sole surviving relative and weakest point of Bolan’s defenses. “I was wondering if his security was still solid.”
“Yeah, it’s solid,” Turrin assured him. “He digs that military school. I don’t know why, I don’t think I could hack it. But he’s eating it up.”
“Okay, I guess that’s all I had on my mind.”
“At—what?—three in the morning? Naw, you got more than that on your mind, buddy-O.”
Bolan chuckled. “Have you seen Valentina lately?”
“Few days ago, same time I checked the kid. She sends you her undying devotion. Don’t worry, she’s secure.”
“Like her work okay?”
“Yeah, she digs it too. Running an office is a bit different than running a classroom, you know, but she’s there with the kid and …” Turrin laughed. “She says if nothing else she’ll wait until he grows up and marry him.”
Bolan said, “Leo, I appreciate you—”
“Oh hell, don’t say it. I just wish I’d stumbled onto them sooner. Don’t worry, they’re under heavy wraps.”
“Any money problems?”
“You kidding?”
Bolan laughed. “Well, I dipped into the bank today and I—”
“Yeah I heard about that too. Forget it, it’s all coming out of the same pocket. The kid’s all right and Val is fine. So stop worrying.”
“I wasn’t worrying,” Bolan said. “I guess I just wanted to talk about them.”
“You want to try rigging a trip back this way?” Turrin asked. “We could smuggle a meet, I think.”
Bolan said, “Oh hell no. Don’t even get me to thinking about that. Say, uh, how’d it go with you in London?”
“Clean,” Turrin told him. “I came out smelling like a rose.”
Bolan laughed. “I guess you’re about the only one.”
Turrin also was chuckling. He said, “Name of the game, Sarge. Listen, you watch your step in the big bad city. Something large is brewing over there and the five families are up tight, damn tight. So you watch it.”
“What’s the brew?”
“Politics, baby. And you know how that goes.”
“Isn’t it the wrong time of the year for that?” Bolan asked, but something had already started crawling through his mind.
“It’s always the right time for politics. You know that.”
“Yeah, but, for a big brew?”
“Well … yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t believe they have an election coming up there for … oh hell, when do they vote in New York?”
“Same as other places, I guess,” Bolan replied. “And my nose says wrong timing.”
“Yeah. Well listen. I’ll see what I can pick up. You want to call me back or do you have a number there I—”
“I’ll call you back. Uh, Leo. Thanks.”
“Go to hell you big slob.”
A click and a hum told Bolan that the conversation had ended. He grinned and went back to his room, and then he stopped grinning as his legs buckled under him and he had to make a grab for the bedpost to remain upright. Too much too fast, buddy, he told himself. Put it down, put it down.
He put it down, clothes and all, and he was asleep before his head met the pillow, his hand resting upon the grip of the Beretta, and his mind resting upon the ties that held important lives connected to his own. And he dreamed bloody dreams.
11: MAJESTY
At almost the same moment that Mack Bolan had entered the automat with his young friends, Capo Freddie Gambella was being awakened from a fitful sleep in his home a few miles away.
“Tommy Doctor’s outside,” his night house-captain informed him in a harsh whisper. “He’s got some cunt with him that he says knows Mack Bolan.”
Gambella threw a quick look at his wife, asleep in the other bed a few feet away, and growled, “Awright, I’ll be right there.”
The captain was Angel Paleoletti, a favored veteran of some twelve years of night duty at the Gambella residence. He received his mob name from a supposed resemblance to a professional wrestler known as The Swedish Angel who was actually a Prince Charming in any close comparison with Paleoletti.
Maria Gambella openly shuddered at every sight of Angel, and she had absolutely forbade his presence in the marital bedroom. In one of the few ultimatums Maria had ever imposed upon their marriage, she had served notice to the Capo some years back that if she ever again awakened to find Angel Paleoletti standing over her bed, she would exit running and never return. So Gambella, in his own words a man who respected the sensitivities of womanhood, had discreetly moved the beds a few feet farther apart and impressed upon Angel the need for soft movements on nighttime errands into the boudoir.
Per this arrangement, Angel was awaiting his Capo in the small sitting room which adjoined the bedroom when Gambella strode out in robe and slippers, a suit of clothes slung casually over his shoulder. “Okay, what is this now?” he asked the bodyguard.
“Tommy’s outside with this cunt. He thinks you’d want to talk to her personal. You want me to let ’em in?”
“You know better, Angel,” Gambella said quietly. “Tell Tommy I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Dress warm, boss. We got a storm out there that could put out hell.”
Paleoletti slipped quietly away and Gambella took his time getting dressed, running through his mind the possible implications of this sudden break in the search for the elusive Mack the Bastard. He had known, of course, that they would tag the guy sooner or later. It wasn’t possible for anything to happen in this town without the news filtering up to the king of the empire sooner or later. This was the empire state, wasn’t it? Damn right. And Freddie Gambella and his friends had covertly ruled it for a hell of a long time—where rule really counted, anyway. And one day soon, maybe it wouldn’t be so covert. One day soon, maybe …
Gambella had lately been given to studying world history, with particular emphasis on Europe and the royal families who had dominated that continent and much of the world for so many centuries. The feudal kingdoms particularly fascinated the Capo, the parallels were so close to this blessed thing of theirs—the families of America—and he was beginning to understand where old man Maranzano had picked up his ideas for the early organization. The old boy had been a real educated gentleman, probably the only one except for Lucky Luciano who had any class at all. Gambella had secretly felt for many years that it was a damn shame for old man Maranzano to go out the way he did—he really had the right ideas.
Freddie Gambella had those very same ideas. This kingdom was going to get better organized, by God, or Freddie Gambella would die trying. But not like the old man. Hell no. It took more than ideas to fashion an empire. More than class, too. Maybe Freddie didn’t have the benefit of a fancy education but he read a lot, and by God he had the benefit of thirty-five years experience of handling these people, from soldiers to Capos.
The old ways were okay as far as they went. They just didn’t go far enough. Why should they be standing still for all this damn snooping and harassment by the feds? And these damn grand juries, these punk bastards with the holier-than-anybody-look on their faces and their damn hands just as sticky as anybody else’s in the world. All these big corporations—why those bastards stole with a license t
hat nobody ever dreamed of. They conned and robbed and gouged just like any guy on the streets, and that made them part of the game, didn’t it?
Freddie Gambella was not holding still for that crap anymore. Hell no. If those guys wanted to muscle, then they’d better by God start looking for a license from the kingdom, that’s what. Those senators, those congressmen, all those hunky little thieves in Washington and the legislatures, all those guys scrambling after the buck had better start doing their scrambling for licenses from the kingdom. Pretty damn soon, too. The big thing was by God about to happen. And it would be a chain reaction, not just here in New York but all over. The whole world, yeah.
Gambella went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed with mouthwash, grinned at his reflection in the mirror and told it, “I gotta tell you this, Your Majesty, you got stinkin’ breath.” He laughed, went to the closet for his topcoat, put it on and came back to inspect his image in the mirror, then he set the hat on carefully so not to muss the hair that was getting handsomely silver at the temples—yeah, real majesty—and he went out to talk to the cunt.
She was a pretty thing, all round eyed and scared out of her skull, one tit hanging outside her coat and getting massaged by Earl Lattio, Tommy’s top gunner.
Lattio gave him a honky kind of a smile and slid out of the car to let the Capo slide in. Gambella removed his hat and shook the snow off, then handed it to Tommy Doctor who was watching him smugly from the front seat. Then Gambella looked at the cute kid and told her, “Put your titty back in before it catches cold.”
She just sat there quivering, the big eyes looking at him like maybe he was the big hero she’d been looking for to show up and rescue her. He let her see a friendly smile then reached over and tucked the tight little titty in for her and rearranged her coat.
He said, “Didn’t your momma ever tell you to wear a bra? They’ll get all broke down and start sagging before you even so much as have a kid. What’s your name, honey?”
Her lips moved ever so slightly and she whispered, “Evie.”
“Is that what Bolan calls you?” he asked in a soft voice.
She just stared at him.
Tommy Doctor informed the Capo in that smooth college delivery, “We’ve assured the young lady that our concern for Mack is the same as her’s. But she’s hung up on something. She simply will not believe that we’re trying to help the guy.”
“Well you’ve got her all scared, that’s why,” Gambella purred. “Can’t blame her, poor little thing, you guys playing with her titties and all that. What’s your name, honey? Where do you live?”
A lengthy silence fell, then Tommy sighed and said, “It’s been this way for two hours, Mr. Gambella. We talk to her but she doesn’t talk to us. I think she’s a dummy.”
“And you a doctor with psychology?” the Capo said. “I thought you knew how to handle people, Tommy.”
The doctor smiled and spread his hands. “Psychology doesn’t work too well on idiot mentalities,” he explained.
“Aw, don’t call her no idiot,” Gambella said quietly. Somehow, in Tommy Doctor’s presence he always felt compelled to talk just as streety as possible. He couldn’t figure it—maybe he had to prove something to that snotty shit.
He hauled off suddenly and landed a flat-handed haymaker against the side of the cute kid’s face. It sounded like a shot and the blow propelled her over against him where she started crying with jerky, gasping little sounds. He roughly hauled her upright and held her face close to speak quietly into it.
“She’s not no idiot, she’s just a mixed up kid. Isn’t that right, honey?”
The girl blubbered, “Please … Leave me alone … I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything. I was just sounding off to sound big. You know.”
“That’s the most she’s said in two hours,” Tommy Doctor commented.
“Shut up, Tommy. Let me do the talking. Listen, honey, you’re making me feel real unfriendly.”
The girl’s lips quivered and she flared. “You’re not fooling me. And stop talking to me like I’m a child.”
“Oh, she ain’t no child,” Gambella said in mock surprise. “Those little bitty titties and she ain’t no child. Maybe she’s just a stunted slut.”
Evie’s lips compressed and she closed her eyes as though to shut everything out. “Better that than what you are,” she muttered.
“And what am I?” Gambella shouted. “What am I, huh?”
She flinched away from the sudden ferocity of tone, but kept her eyes and mouth closed.
Gambella sighed loudly and turned his gaze toward the young man in the front seat. “Where’d you pick up on this little dolly?” he asked quietly.
“She came running into Mike’s about eleven o’clock. Mike’s rooming with this kid from Columbia, you know that. Since about a month ago. Anyway, she comes running in to see this roommate. The kid isn’t there. So she wants Mike to tell her if this kid has been spilling anything about her knowing Bolan. So Mike got in touch with me. All he knows about her is that he’s seen her around with those CIG punks and that her name is Evie. And she has given us nothing, but nothing.”
Gambella sighed again, then rolled down his window and called out, “Angel! Come around to the other side and get in.”
A huge bulk crowded into the rear seat from the far side of the car, muttering profanities and brushing at clusters of snow on his clothing. The girl’s eyes flashed open; she took one horrified look at the new arrival and recoiled toward Gambella.
The Capo chuckled and commanded his bodyguard, “Take the little girl on your lap, Angel.”
Angel did so, hauling her onto him with two huge hands which totally spanned her waist. She resisted briefly, gurgling some horrified plea, then she gave up and sat stiffly sobbing, the blonde head wedged against the ceiling of the car.
Gambella said, “She’s going to break her neck, Angel. Cuddle the poor little thing.”
The giant bodyguard did so, dragging her head down by the hair to nestle at his throat.
Gambella squeezed her thigh and said to Tommy Doctor, “Tell your wheelman we want to go to the weenie house. And don’t hurry. Tell the other boys to stay close behind, we don’t want to get separated in this weather.”
A moment later the three-car caravan was out of the drive and heading slowly toward a meat-packing plant near the waterfront. Gambella was obviously pleased with the frozen terror of his “pigeon.” He asked Angel Paleoletti, “Enjoying yourself, Angel?”
“Sure, boss,” the huge bodyguard replied, showing his Capo a hideous smile.
“Well I don’t think the dolly is enjoying herself very much. You should make her feel comfortable, Angel. I think she likes to have her titties felt up. Other places too, I bet.”
Paleoletti guffawed and became busy. The girl went rigid, her eyes became sheer ice and held an unblinking focus on the domelight. The big man began squirming and a moment later announced, “Hell, boss, this is getting me hot.”
“You’ll just have to be patient, Angel,” the Capo told him. “But I promise you this. You get first jump. The other boys will have to line up for sloppy seconds.”
The girl began screaming then, and they let her scream. Her frail lungs were no match for the wind-and-snow wall of silence surrounding that vehicle, and the ride to the waterfront was a slow, deliberate advance into a night of terror which could not have been remotely conceived by unsophisticated young girls such as Evie Clifford.
All three vehicles drove into the refrigerated plant at shortly before 2:00 A.M., and the hysterical girl was dragged kicking and screaming into a large room where sausages were made, begging them to listen to her and assuring one and all that she would tell them anything and everything they wished to know.
But the Kingdom of Evil observed a ritualistic attitude toward enemies of the empire, toward those who befriended such enemies, and especially toward those who could conceivably become future enemies of the empire. In the dogmas of t
his kingdom, Evie Clifford was all of these.
An image needed to be maintained, a reign of terror needed to be reinforced, an example needed to be made. So they would not listen to their pigeon—fast becoming a turkey—until she had been spread-eagled naked upon a wooden meat table in a refrigerated room, and then they listened, and a pleased Capo made his departure at approximately twenty minutes past two o’clock, when Evie Clifford’s living nightmare began in earnest. The animal shrieks of a human being in unimaginable torment persisted through the frozen time of the night and into the unseen dawn, but not one of those sounds penetrated into the ordinary world beyond those walls of the kingdom.
Long before the nightmare had ended for Evie Clifford, His Royal Majesty, Freddie the First, was telling his lady, “Naw, go on back to sleep, everything’s all right. I just went out to see the storm.”
Indeed, everything was all right with King Freddie. It had been a profitable night, and it would be an even more profitable morrow. It could wait ’til then, everything was falling into place beautifully, and Mack the Bastard would be screaming his lousy turkey-head off before the new day was ended.
The king’s lady murmured sleepily and told him, “At first I thought you were that awful Angel, stealing in here like a ghost.” She turned her back and nuzzled into her pillow and added, “The very thought fills me with horror.”
Gambella smiled and returned to his bed. Maria, he was thinking, was a bigger dope than any of them. She did not have the merest idea of what real terror was. But a lot of dopes were going to find out what it was. Damn soon, too. Just wait until things got going good into the big thing. Today, New York. Tomorrow, the world. The Capo smiled again, closed his eyes, and went peacefully to sleep.
Across town, a mindless lump of whimpering flesh was periodically screeching out everything it knew, and everything it could never possibly know, and the ears that heard did not even care anymore what was known or not known. Man, it is said, is the only beast that laughs at the misery of others of its own kind. There was laughter amidst those shrieks, and vile jokes, and insane inspirations for new ways to produce new shrieks. And the night of terror that surpasses all nightmares wore on and on. For Evie Clifford, the kingdom had come.
Nightmare in New York Page 9