Satan’s Sabbath

by Don Pendleton

  “I drive a Ferrari,” Omega told him.

  Just like that. Minotti sucked in another breath and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. Red one?”

  “Last time I looked, yeah,” said the guy who drives a Ferrari.

  “And when was that?”

  Omega shrugged and casually replied, “It’s in the garage. I hope. Call down and ask your boys to see.”

  Minotti glared at the sun-shrouded figure at the window for a moment, then declared, “The last red Ferrari I saw was sitting up in Central Park all shot to hell!”

  “Not mine,” the guy said coolly, adding: “I hope. Sigmund’s maybe. He’s been pulling some fancy doughnuts on me, the past couple of weeks. How’d it get shot up?”

  “It followed us from the bathhouse,” Minotti explained, wondering what the hell. “But I also heard that the guy snatched the kid and left in a car like that. So you tell me what the hell!”

  “That was the battle in the park? You? And a Ferrari?”

  “That’s right,” said Minotti, squinting at that shadowy figure.

  “You better check the garage,” Omega said quietly.

  Damned right he’d better. Minotti stepped back into the open doorway and called out, “Matty! Call down and see if Omega’s Ferrari is there.” Then, to Omega: “I don’t see how … How far did you take the kid?”

  “Not far,” the Ace replied. “I was back here within about ten minutes after I left your joint. I didn’t see Sigmund around, though. Maybe he was tailing me, the whole time. Maybe he slipped in, ripped off my car, and slipped out again. But let’s see what Matty has to say.”

  Omega had not moved from his position at the window, but he’d turned the other side of his face to the sun. Minotti wished he could get a better look at the guy, without making an issue of it. These guys were always a bit touchy about … Dammit, though, he sure looked familiar!

  “I put the kid on ice, Marco,” he was saying. “She’s pretty sick. I think we almost lost her. Don’t worry it, though. She’s in good hands, now.”

  Which reminded Minotti of something else. He cried, aghast, “Not that goddam Eisener, I hope! I think maybe Sigmund had that guy in the pocket, too!”

  Omega replied, “Not Eisener, no. A real doctor. Don’t worry, she’s cool. Until you need her. Just tell me when.”

  Marco would tell the guy when, damned right. How ’bout, by God, right now? He was about to say just that when the guy diverted him with another troubling point.

  “How do you figure Sigmund found out about her?”

  “Same way I did, maybe,” Minotti replied, thinking about it, though. “How did you find out?”

  “I was spotting Sigmund,” Omega quietly explained.

  “Well you do damned good work, guy, I’ll say that. Listen … you and I got to get the heads together and get this mess unscrewed. Hope I can count on you for that.”

  “It could depend on the girl, Marco,” said the cool bastard.

  “Us getting together depends on …?”

  “No, I mean unscrewed. She could be crucial.”

  No, Minotti guessed not. He told the guy as much, adding: “I think it was all part of that rotten bastard’s razzle dazzle, anyway. Come to think of it, Omega, why don’t you just sit on that kid for me ’til I find out what it’s all about. And, uh, I ’preciate the thought—I mean, what you did for me. We can—”

  “Where’d you find her, Marco?”

  “Huh?”

  “The kid.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How would I know? She was in a coma when I picked her up. Still is, maybe.”

  “A coma?”

  “That’s right. Your friend Eisener …”

  The anger was flaring again. Minotti gnashed his teeth and said, “The fink! Probably trying to kill her, behind my back! Well, to hell with it! That’s all dumb history, now.”

  “I think it may be important,” Omega persisted. “With Sigmund now in the open … And he knows about the kid. How embarrassing could that get?”

  Minotti wavered, deciding maybe he should tell the guy all about it, when Matty Carzone moved quietly to the doorway and whispered in his ear: “A red Ferrari is in the garage, okay. Clean as a whistle. But you should know, also, that Johnny Grazzi and his Brooklyn commandos are all over the place. I guess Johnny is on his way up, right now.”

  “Tell the boys to cool it,” Minotti whispered back. “Greet them like brothers. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He turned back to the big cool figure at the window. The guy was lowering the blinds now, his ten minutes in the sun obviously satisfied. Now Minotti could see even less, in the sudden gloom, his eyes flaring into the adjustment.

  “We’ll talk about the kid later, Omega” Minotti told the shadow. “Our friends from Brooklyn just came in. Give me five minutes, then I want you to come out and say hello. Let’s nail this thing down, right here and now.”

  The guy replied, very softly, “You’re right. The time has come.”

  Damned right the time had come. Minotti growled, “Five minutes, eh?”

  “Right,” said the shadow. “Meanwhile, send Leo in here, will you?”

  Minotti spun through the doorway and rejoined his boys, in the lounge. He was still a bit troubled about this Omega guy … something … something out of whack … something …

  Leo said, “He’s an okay guy, isn’t he, Marco?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” replied Marco, but still wondering if it was true. “Uh, he wants to see you, Leo. You say the guy worked for you before?”

  “For all of us, Marco. He brought his own organization down around his ears to protect us from it.”

  “You mean …?”

  “I mean the Aces, sure. Barney had the whole outfit wired like puppets. Omega is the guy that snipped those wires. Ask Billy Gino. He was closer to it than I was.”

  “Where is Billy?”

  “I think he’s downstairs visiting with some of your boys. You know Billy. A brother is everything.”

  “Yeah, sure, good man,” Minotti growled. “Uh, look, I got to talk to Grazzi. Tell Billy I’d like to talk to him, too—pretty quick, eh?”

  Minotti went on, then, and called his boys around him. Something did not smell good. Off key, off key. It jangled at the nerves and made Marco want to hit somebody.

  Something, yeah, was very wrong here.

  CHAPTER 15

  ONCE UPON A TIME …

  Bolan had never ceased to be amazed by the frailty of human perceptions. Just three days earlier he had stood toe to toe with Marco Minotti in a trailer near White Sands—in a quite different pose, of course, but toe to toe, nonetheless—and parleyed with the guy for several minutes.

  Shortly thereafter, Minotti had to have known that the mysterious “Architect” of White Sands was none other than Mack Bolan. In all fairness, though, Bolan had to allow for the fact that the role at White Sands was considerably removed from the role here. Also, one “sees” with more than the eye which is, after all, hardly more than a camera lens. It is the brain that takes those shifting patterns of light and converts them into a comprehensible structure—and, beyond the brain, it is the mind itself which lends meaning to that structure.

  So Minotti “saw,” in that office, essentially what he had been prepared to see—helped in every way possible, of course, by Bolan’s own creative manipulation of the “patterns of light” available in there.

  He had figured it at a fifty-fifty chance for success. And he knew very well that Minotti had walked away from it with a fuzzy and troubled focus. Such sleight-of-hand could not work forever, of course. And Bolan did not wish to give the guy too much further opportunity to resolve the focus of that troubled mind.

  So when Leo stepped into the office, Bolan told him, “It’s getting tight, buddy. I’m losing it. How many guns are out there?”

  Turrin worriedly reported, “In the lounge, right now, maybe twenty. I make it another twenty or so scattered between here and
the garage. And it’s getting worse. Grazzi has arrived. I would guess he has close to thirty or more of his own. We can’t count on them cancelling each other out—even though, of course, these are shaky times for family loyalty. All of those guys are nervous as hell. I do get the feeling that there is not a lot of confidence in Marco—and if he is having that kind of trouble, you can imagine how Grazzi is set, with even weaker credentials. So hell, I just don’t know. I do know this much: Marco is in a bargaining mood. He’s brokering openly and with all the persuasive charm a guy like that can muster. But he’s psycho as hell, Sarge. They all know it, too. I’d say that’s your only chance. I don’t see how you could shoot your way out unless they start shooting at each other first.”

  “Well, that’s a thought,” Bolan mused.

  “Okay, but I got something else, too. Don’t know if it could be any help right now but …”

  “What?” Bolan asked quietly.

  “Does the name Lou Nola mean something to you?”

  “A lot, yeah.”

  “Okay,” Turrin said. “He called. Here’s the message. A guy named Artie Johnson, a freelancer, snatched the kid. Marco sent this Johnson down to Washington last Tuesday night, just before Marco himself left for New Mexico. A guy named Eisener and a couple of local punks went with Johnson. They got back from Washington on Wednesday night. Johnson and his two punks were fished out of the East River on Thursday, inside the car they took to Washington. Nola says this is solid and it’s worth a lot more than a grand.”

  “A lot, yeah,” Bolan said thoughtfully. “Did Nola say where he got this?”

  “He got it from Eisener. Eisener, whoever, is scared out of his skull and running. Wants your protection. I told Nola to call back in an hour. What do you think?”

  “I think,” Bolan replied softly, “that I would love to discuss this with Mr. Eisener right now. Did Nola leave a number?”

  “Hell no. He’s like a rabbit on Fifth Avenue, himself. Says that Marco has crews out scouring the town for this Eisener guy.”

  “If he calls again, Leo, send them to Hal.”

  “Okay. But does it make a difference here?”

  “It could,” Bolan replied, still skulling it.

  “Just who is this kid?”

  “Wish to hell I knew,” said Bolan. “I can’t help feeling … some sort of trump hand Minotti was trying to … has to be, something … he and Sigmund were tight and getting tighter until … Washington, uh huh.”

  “What does Uh-huh mean?”

  “I don’t know, Leo. At the same time, I do know. Like Minotti and his fuzzy … it’s there but I can’t see it, yet, not clearly. Sigmund has been commuting to Washington the past two weeks. He found a leak in our system and was beginning to puzzle it out. He confided in Marco—but, he says, not totally. Marco …”

  “Marco what?” Turrin prodded.

  “Marco has been making a damned lot of noise, lately, hasn’t he.”

  “Coming on,” Turrin replied, “like Augie Junior.”

  “He’s cagey, that guy,” Bolan mused. “Dangerous as a snake, too. Doesn’t trust Omega. Wouldn’t have trusted Sigmund, either, whatever the bond. Trump hand. Yeah. Okay. He muscled it. That has to be the answer, Leo, part of it. He muscled Sigmund’s delicate Washington operation. Moved in on it. But why didn’t Sigmund know? Who the hell is that kid?”

  “There’s no time to go public with it,” Turrin commented, “… or else maybe we could find out.”

  Bolan had come to some sort of decision. He checked his appearance and said, “Walk me to the terrace, Leo.”

  Turrin nervously replied, “You’re sure you want to go out there?”

  “I’m sure, yeah. Straight through them, all the way to the terrace. Talk it up, laugh it up, but don’t let anyone stop us.”

  “What are you—?”

  “I have,” Bolan told him, anticipating the question, “a weak radio sewed into my coat. I want a parley with Hal. I need the terrace for radio stretch. Too much steel around us, in here. I need the open air of the terrace. So let’s go.”

  They went, arm in arm across the lounge, chatting quietly about old times, better times—the impressive Ace of Spades with his consort, Sir Leo of the Lion Heart—graciously accepting quiet greetings of respect and admiration as they traversed that savage turf.

  Minotti and Grazzi were in a tight-two parley at a table in the far corner, speaking soberly and animatedly of, no doubt, worldshaking matters of Mafia state while their respective close-cadres glared suspiciously at one another just out of earshot of the parley at the table.

  Turrin closed the terrace door behind them with a quiet sigh of relief and muttered, “I told you. They’re getting it together.”

  Bolan pulled him to the parapet and they stood there at arms-length distance, apparently engaged in quiet conversation as Bolan touched his lapel and spoke to the shoulder.

  “Striker Base.”

  Immediately, crisply, at the ear: “Babysitter here.”

  She must have been sitting there waiting for it, microphone in hand.

  Bolan’s request was terse and to the point: “Quick parley with the Wonderland Kid.”

  “Moment,” she shot back. “Alice is … one moment. We’ve been concerned! Is it okay with you?”

  “Warm and getting warmer,” he responded. “I need that parley, the quickest.”

  “I am making the connection. Stand by one.”

  Bolan stood by, grinning at Turrin and apparently reacting to the showtalk which had continued unabated from that good friend.

  Then, at the ear, Brognola: “Alice here. A-OK at my end. The guy is singing his entire repertoire.”

  Into the shoulder: “I need the Wonderland connection. Who is the girl?”

  “Is she connected to that?” inquired the ear.

  “I’m asking you. I think so, yeah. Ask the man.”

  “Already did. Knows nothing about it, or so he says. Is it important?”

  “Could be, yes. She was snatched from Wonderland Tuesday night or Wednesday. Where is your subject now?”

  “In my van, giving a concert. Good thing we came to town, pal. For what it’s worth, I’m dining on crow right now. You were right. The Apple is worth it. Our house was built upon shifting sands. More on that, later. How can I support?”

  Bolan threw a glance at the glass wall. Two guys were standing just inside, hands in pockets, watching while not watching.

  He told the shoulder, “The shifting sands are the key. Get the guy to sharpen his repertoire. Also, take some Polaroids of your medical case and fax them to Wonderland. Circulate the Polaroids to the inner circle—or call that the oval circle. I’m betting someone will recognize her. I think she was Marco’s trump. Try it that way and get it back to me with all haste.”

  “All haste, right,” Brognola agreed. “Meanwhile …”

  Bolan glanced again into the lounge. “Meanwhile,” he told the shoulder, “another show of force could save the day without breaking it. Just a show, though, not a full war dance. On the street, below, maybe.”

  “Gotcha,” replied the friend from Wonderland. “Give it two minutes then look out the window.”

  “I’ll be looking.”

  He gave it a brief pause then said, “Cool it there, Babysitter. It’s well in hand.”

  “Just wait ’til it gets into my hands,” came the purring promise. “Keep it healthy, please.”

  Bolan chuckled, touched the lapel and moved the hand on to playfully slap at Turrin’s cheek.

  Leo, of course, had heard only half of that conversation—and probably not much of that part. “So?” he asked, as they strolled back toward the lounge. “Did you get any comfort?”

  “There will be a show of force on the streets below in about two minutes,” Bolan reported soberly through smiling lips. “That means we should start something of our own to mesh with that. Got any ideas?”

  “Something wild.”

  “Something wild is right,
” Bolan replied, smiling on. “Something, maybe, as crazy as Marco.”

  “Guess I know what you mean,” Leo said, staring straight ahead. “I’ve been thinking about it for most of an hour, now.”

  They stepped inside.

  Leo slid the door shut with a bang.

  “Omega” winked at a Minotti hardman, took Leo by the arm and said, loud enough for those nearby to overhear, “I’ll tell you an interesting story, Leo. Once upon a time, see, there was this Wise Man from the East. He thought he had the world by the ass, see, but all that he had was a tiger by the tail.”

  “Once upon a time, eh?” Turrin said, just as loudly—throwing knowing looks to all within range.

  “Well, of course,” Omega replied, with heavy emphasis, “that time is now.”

  CHAPTER 16

  SHOW OF FORCE

  The Minotti-Grazzi parley was evidently going pretty well. The two principals were relaxed in their chairs, sipping wine, all smiles. The pleasant atmosphere was siphoning off, also, onto the cadres. The “boys” were prowling less, standing off in relaxed groups—though still separated by family lines—obviously very much relieved that the tensions were abating.

  Minotti’s “close-cadre”—the human shields—had taken a table and were sitting in a more or less relaxed attitude some twenty feet away from their boss.

  At the bar, about twenty feet in the opposite direction, stood Grazzi’s pledged flesh.

  Bolan murmured to Leo Turrin, “So start it,” and dropped away to jaw pleasantly with a Minotti group who stood near the foyer door.

  Turrin lit a cigarette, went to the east window and paused there for a moment, looking down, then hurried to the bar and tapped Grazzi’s bodycock, one Charlie Atlantic, on the shoulder. “How’s it going?” he asked quietly.

  “Looks okay,” the bodycock replied soberly. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” Leo told that guy, “that we should not forget the old proverbs. How does that one go?—when the wine begins to flow, the blood cannot be far behind? You remember that one?”

  The guy stiffened somewhat and said, “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m watching it.”