Satan’s Sabbath

by Don Pendleton

  Leo Turrin was waiting for them at the elevator. He grabbed Minotti’s hand and wrung it warmly as he exclaimed, “God, it’s good to see you, Marco! I was worried—I heard about—hey, that hit in the park is all over the damned news! Who the hell …?”

  Three of the boys went on ahead to scout the lounge area, two more took stations in the foyer, and the two personal tagmen fell in to the rear as Turrin walked Minotti inside.

  A good guy, this Leo. Minotti liked him, respected him. He’d like to make this guy in his own image. But Leo Turrin was not the guy he’d come to see, right now. “Where’s Sigmund?” he growled.

  “Sit down, get comfortable,” Turrin said. “Sigmund is in a parley with Omega. They’ll be out in a minute. What are you drinking? Naw—I know.” He turned to his boy at the bar and snapped his fingers. “Scotch and Perrier for Mr. Minotti.”

  It was kind of funny. Leo had been a ranker up north when Marco was still hustling dimes in the Bronx. Why he’d ever traded that for …

  Minotti dropped into a heavy leather chair and said, “You run a tight ship, Leo. Don’t know what we’d do without you up here. But any time you want to spring from this joint, you let me know.”

  Turrin grinned as he inquired, “You got something particular in mind?”

  Minotti leaned forward to light a cigar. He relaxed into the chair, blew a perfect smoke ring, watched it rise toward the ceiling, said, “I got a lot in mind. We gotta get back to the basics. Too much time and money went legit. Now look where it’s at. We need to put our money where the feds can’t get at it. Back to the basics.”

  Turrin tossed a look toward the back wall, pulled up a chair in close conference, replied: “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, myself, Marco.”

  “Yeah.” It was Minotti’s favorite topic, of late. “You just keep on thinking, Leo. The old outfit will rise again. And I like the way you handled the girls franchise, up north. That’s what we need to concentrate on. That kind of stuff, you know. I already took my bath in the other kind. You know what I mean. Everything went to shit, too, didn’t it. You can’t compete in the legit marketplace nowadays. Shit, the goddam legit marketplace, now, is kinkier than we ever thought of. You can’t compete with that, not with the feds always on your ass, too.”

  “I know what you mean,” Turrin said, glowing at him.

  “Sure you do. Because you’re a sharp guy. You’re a vanishing breed, though, Leo. Hell, in the old days … well, you know what I mean. Guys that couldn’t dust my butt with a dollar bill are now operating most of the hard markets. Listen, we let it get out of hand. I mean to get it back. And if you want in …”

  “You know I do,” Turrin said quietly. “I’ve been like on vacation here at commissione. I’m walking the damned walls, I tell you. I’d die for a chance at another territory.”

  “I knew it,” Minotti said. “Well, listen, the smart money today is in sex. S, E, X. And not just prostitution, you know. Hell, they said the sex revolution would kill prostitution. Don’t you believe that. It’s never been better. But we lost control of it. We can get it back. But that’s just one angle. There’s a whole new field opening up. You ever hear of video cassettes?”

  Turrin said, “Sure. I’ve been looking at that, myself.”

  “Well, keep on looking.” Minotti was playing politician, campaigning for votes. Promise them anything but just make sure you talk their own language. “It’s going to be an exciting territory, a gold mine, for a savvy guy. You know why most people don’t go to porno theatres? That’s right, most don’t, a small percentage do. You know why? Because most people are hypocrites. They’d all like to see the action, sure, but they don’t want to be seen doing it. Offer it to them in their homes and they’ll spend the family budget to get their private kicks. A real wise guy could clean up in that market, Leo. You be thinking about it.”

  Turrin assured him, “I sure will, Marco.”

  “Where the hell is that Sigmund? Does he know I’m here?”

  “He knows you’re here, Marco. He’s skulling the battle strategy right now with—”

  “I should be part of that. What is that other guy called?”

  “He’s called Omega. You remember him. He saved my ass at Pittsfield.”

  Minotti pulled on a dark frown. “He’s the one that blew the whistle on old Barney?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That fuckin’ Augie, Leo!”

  “Yeh. If Omega hadn’t come down on the right side, no telling what …”

  “You’re right, no telling what. Well I want to meet this guy Omega. I especially want to know where he was at this morning about eight o’clock or so.”

  “He was right here,” Turrin said.

  “Right here?”

  “That’s right. He was here at six when I came in.”

  “You come in at six?”

  Turrin smiled. “Every morning, seven a week.”

  “Was Sigmund here?”

  “At six? No.”

  “How ’bout eight?”

  “No. He came in about half an hour ago.”

  “He called me about half an hour ago, too,” Minotti muttered darkly. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?”

  “A Mercedes,” Turrin replied immediately. “SL something or other.”

  “How ’bout the other guy?”

  Turrin shook his head. “I don’t know. Whatever you’re thinking, Marco, I say you should give Omega benefit of the doubt. He is—”

  “I’m wondering about a damned red Ferrari and a guy who calls himself a Black Ace. The thing in the park? It was a set up. You wouldn’t know anything about …”

  Turrin solemnly replied, “Just what I heard on the news, Marco. Who set it up?”

  “That’s what I mean to find out,” Minotti said, glowering with the memory of it.

  “Well here comes Sigmund, now,” Turrin observed. “You want me to stick around and listen in?”

  Minotti turned a dark gaze toward the approaching Ace. “Naw,” he replied quietly. “Leave us. And go tell this Omega that I want his ass at front and center, too. Wait, cancel that. I don’t want them together. Tell Omega I’ll be in to see him in a minute.”

  Another elevator car loaded with Minotti’s boys had just arrived. They were spilling into the lounge like a war party, solemn of stride and with restless gaze.

  Turrin smiled, stood up, and said, “I’m sure he’s looking forward to seeing you, too, Marco.”

  Then he danced around Sigmund and struck off very quickly toward the offices at the back wall.

  CHAPTER 13

  SET UP

  “He’ll be coming in any minute,” Turrin warned his friend, the Striker.

  “Did you reach Grazzi?”

  “Yes. It should take him another ten, fifteen minutes to get here, though. I doubt that we can stall it that long.”

  “Where’s Billy Gino?”

  “Garage level. Marco left a full crew down there. Billy’s watching them. I told Grazzi to park on the street and use the main lobby.”

  Bolan went to the window and adjusted the blinds. “Okay, Leo. Thanks. Keep the fingers crossed. It’s not lost, yet.”

  “Course not. Uh, maybe I should stay in here with you, though.”

  “No. Mix around, jolly it up all you can. Try to get some booze inside those people.”

  “I should alert Hal.”

  “No need to. I’m sure he’s reading the wires. Just hope he doesn’t come busting in and tear it for good. If you’re reading me, Hal—don’t! Wait a minute! Check that! Do it! But don’t come for me! Come for Sigmund!”

  Turrin marveled, “What the hell …?”

  “Sigmund is in damned big trouble,” Bolan said, grinning. “Someone had better come spring his butt out of here.”

  “You’re right!” Turrin howled. “My God, it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful!”

  They left the personnel bus double-parked on the street just outside the garage entrance and jogg
ed down the ramp in combat order, two single files at double armreach apart, fifty United States marshals in crisp uniforms and bearing riot guns, Harold Brognola leading them by two paces.

  A mob of torpedoes milling around outside the office to the underground garage offered no resistance but quickly parted ranks and allowed the formation to pass unobstructed. One file of marshals dropped away to take up scowling positions opposite the torpedoes while the other contingent jogged on to the elevators.

  A guy whom Brognola recognized immediately as Billy Gino thrust his chin into Brognola’s path and growled, “You got no right to go up there!”

  “Do tell,” said Brognola as he brushed the guy aside, but gently.

  Brognola and ten took the express to the penthouse. Another ten took another car to the 27th. Five more ran up the stairway to neutralize the main lobby.

  Leo Turrin met Brognola in the penthouse foyer, obviously alerted to the invasion by a lookout below. Two torpedoes stood behind him.

  “You can’t come in here without a warrant!” Turrin growled.

  Brognola produced one, thrust it at his star undercover operative, and growled back, “Jam this up your ass and read it, then, hotshot!”

  Turrin recognized the form of the warrant as one of many carried in the rolling command center, duly dated and executed by the special federal judge who traveled with them. He winked knowingly as Brognola and his force of ten pushed on past him.

  Minotti stood just inside the lounge, scowling.

  Turrin showed him a pained face and shrugging shoulders.

  Minotti whirled about and retreated to the interior, several of his boys closing around him.

  Sigmund sat in the same chair which Leo had vacated some minutes earlier, thoughtfully puffing at a cigarette, seemingly bored by the whole thing.

  The marshals formed a fanshaped pattern at the open doorway, weapons cradled across the chest, as Brognola penetrated into the lounge, alone. He halted ten paces away from Sigmund, gave him a hard look, and said, “Okay, pal, let’s go.”

  Sigmund looked to his left and to his right, then at Brognola. “You talking to me?” he inquired casually.

  “The game is over,” Brognola snapped. “It’s now or never.” He raised a hand and pointed dramatically at Minotti. “Tell your dogs to lie down, Marco! I’d rather take this man out of here peacefully and quietly. But I’ll do it any way I have to!”

  Minotti sneered and turned away. “You’re welcome to him,” he said, over his shoulder.

  Sigmund rose slowly to his feet, a frozen figure uncoiling into some nightmare, the face a twisted mask of protest. “Well now, wait a minute …”

  Brognola moved close and quietly told that guy, “Suit yourself, Sigmund. I’ll leave you here if you’re sure that’s really what you want. You’re a dead bird either way, now, so it makes no difference to me. Stay, if you want to, and save the taxpayers some money.”

  “You cute bastard!” Sigmund hissed.

  Minotti was watching closely from a distance, too far away to overhear the conversation.

  Brognola shrugged, turned his back on Sigmund, walked swiftly toward the exit.

  Sigmund briefly scanned that room, read the scowling faces there, then quickly followed.

  Brognola waited for him at the door, then took him arm in arm to the elevator—the marshals backing away in a protective shield to the rear.

  As the doors were closing on that little charade, Leo Turrin yelled from the lounge, “You’re a dead man, Sigmund!”

  Brognola grinned, offered a cigar to his prize patsy, and said, “You just saved the day, pal.”

  Maybe … and maybe not. It was April who had saved it, if saving it was.

  Brognola had already launched the rescue operation, prepared to abort the whole thing and yank his man the hell out of there, regardless of the consequences. Then the flash came from April, relaying the Striker’s wishes in a last-minute plea. Last minute, for damned sure. The message came when they were just a block away from target central. Brognola had not decided how he would play it until he got up there and saw all those caged tigers prowling their lair, slinking back with yellow hatred blazing from their savage eyes—and then he understood the Striker as he had never understood him before—empathized as he had never done before.

  To a guy confronting that sort of hellish reality day in and day out, living with it and prepared to die with it … well, yeah, New York was worthwhile. All of it was worthwhile.

  If the guy wanted to play his only hand to the final gasp, then who the hell was Harold Brognola to tell him nay?

  And it could very well be the final gasp, yes. There was still the problem of Minotti. A facedown with that guy would very likely be disastrous. But evidently the Striker knew what he was doing. Brognola hoped so. He draped his arm chummily across Sigmund’s shoulders and walked him into the garage.

  “You’n me, pal,” he said quietly, “have many things to talk about.”

  “It’s dead, anyway,” Sigmund said drearily. “You can have whatever you want. If, of course, I get full immunity and total security.”

  “You’ll get what I want to give you, guy,” Brognola told him. “Just make me happy.”

  “I’ll make you delirious,” Sigmund promised. “Just keep me alive and well.”

  Minotti was in one of his crazy rages. He kicked a glass table halfway across the lounge and threw a vase of silk flowers at the bar, then pulled out his revolver and emptied it into the chair where Sigmund had sat, just a moment ago.

  The torpedoes walked around on eggs, exchanging dark glances and avoiding eye contact with the boss.

  Leo Turrin stood against the wall near the foyer, one leg crossed in front of the other, arms at his chest and waggling his eyebrows at a nearby gunman.

  Then the door over there opened; the tall man filled the opening, hardly more than a shadow against the strong sunlight spilling out from behind.

  Minotti was reloading his gun. He looked up as the tall man asked, in a voice that filled the large room, “What the hell is all the racket out here?”

  “I was just coming in to tell you all about it,” Minotti called back. He was calm, now, the rage vented—but still looking dangerous as hell.

  “So come on,” said the big man. He disappeared, leaving the door open, the sunlight streaming through.

  The torpedo closest to Turrin said, in quiet awe, “Jesus! Who is that?”

  “That,” said Turrin, just as quietly, “is the guy who’s going to save your ass from crazy Marco.”

  So … the stage was set, the fix was in … and only God and Mack Bolan could know what might happen next.

  CHAPTER 14

  TURNAROUND

  The guy was standing at the window, his face in half profile in the dazzling sunlight, eyes shaded by heavy sunglasses. Big guy, impressive as hell. Vaguely familiar, too … The damned sunglasses, maybe. Damned right! Nola had said …

  Minotti held up at the doorway, the revolver still clasped loosely in a relaxed hand. He growled, “You’re the guy hit my bathhouse awhile ago!”

  The Ace replied in a quiet, clipped voice, “That’s right.”

  Minotti squared his shoulders and yelled, “Well I hope you got a damned good explanation for that crap!”

  The guy shrugged and softly replied, “We still have the kid, Marco.”

  “We, hell! I don’t—hold it there! What’re you saying? You snatched her for me?”

  The Death Card turned full face toward Minotti. Now he could see even less of the guy. That damned sun … He moved on inside the room but stayed close to the open doorway as he demanded, “Close the damned blinds!”

  “In a minute,” the Ace replied—explaining: “My face man says I should get ten minutes of morning sun, ’til the marks fade. First chance I’ve had all day, with the rain and all. They turn blue, you know, if you’re not careful.”

  No, Minotti had not known that. So that was where the guy had been since Augie … getting a
damned new face. Probably with very good reason, too.

  Minotti growled, “What’d you mean about the kid?”

  Omega turned a bit more toward the doorway as he replied, smiling, “I mean that I beat Sigmund to her by about five minutes.”

  Minotti could believe that! He could almost believe anything about that …! He said, the anger surfacing again, “Listen, Omega, I want you to put the sign on that guy! I don’t care what it costs or what it takes! I want ’im hit and I want it damned quick! Even if he’s in the bed with the Attorney General—wherever—even if it takes an atom bomb! Get me? I want that guy hit!”

  “It’s already taken care of,” Omega replied smoothly.

  “Is that right! Well I … okay, if you say so. For now. I guess he knew you had ’im, eh? That’s why the feds …?”

  “That’s why, yeah,” said the smooth bastard. “You were a godsend for him, coming in when you did. I knew he was stalling for time but I didn’t know he’d already sent for help. But don’t worry it, Marco. He’s a dead man.”

  These guys, Marco knew … these guys like Omega and Sigmund—it did not pay to underestimate them. Mean as hell, cold like death—and a lot smarter, in certain important ways, than Marco could ever be. He knew that. But he would never accept it, not really, not down where it really counted. For now, though …

  “Damned right he’s a dead man!” Minotti yelled—speaking, also, to the gallery outside. He was working himself into another balls-out rage, encouraging it, enjoying the feeling of invincible power that it produced within him. “That son of a bitch, Omega, that double-dealing bastard, all this time telling me—I bet that’s why we hit shit everywhere we turned, all this time. I bet half the time we thought it was that Bolan, it was this rotten …”

  Minotti ran out of wind. He kicked the wall, holstered his gun then plucked it back, hit the door with it, sucked in his breath, felt his eyes begin to roll in their sockets and knew that it was time to tuck it all back in.

  Omega calmly suggested, “You’ll have a stroke, Marco. Leave all this worry to me, huh? You got more important things to attend to.”

  The guy was right. More important things. “So what about that Bolan? Hey, I meant to ask … what kind of car do you drive?”