Marinello said, "Okay, let's say that both sides agree to bury the hatchet. Then what?"
Staccio shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't sat around and thought it out. But I think maybe Charley Lucky had the right idea, way back when."
"You mean we invite Bolan into the organization," Marinello said quietly.
Staccio again shrugged. "Why not? It worked before, it could work again. He'd be a hell of a good boy on our side of the fence. We could all respect him, right? Wouldn't that boy make one hell of an enforcer?"
Arnie Farmer rose jerkily to his feet and delicately fingered the fabric of his trousers. "I got a hole in my ass the size of a golf ball," he announced in a voice thick with emotion. "That bastard put it there, and I'll never sit down in peace again until—"
Staccio said coldly, "You're not the only one. We all got our reasons for hating that boy's guts. But that's not the point. We got to be realistic. Our whole thing is going to fall apart around us if we don't start using our heads instead of our hots. Now we got a crisis, just like with the old wars. We got a crisis and we got to face up to that!"
Castiglione shivered. "Cop a plea with Bolan," he muttered, "… never! I mean never!"
"Hey, hey, let's cool it off," Marinello suggested. "You've both made your point, now let's sit down and discuss it, eh."
Castiglione sat, but growled, "You try burying the hatchet with this Bolan, you're gonna tear our thing apart for sure. There's too many scars, Augie, entirely too much to try forgiving and forgetting."
"Okay, okay, let's just talk about it," Marinello urged.
The Pennsylvania boss said, "What if we just made Bolan thinkwe wanted to deal? Huh?"
"Don't you think he'd be smelling for that sort of thing anyway?" Staccio replied. "He's going to be suspicious as hell. I doubt if we could get him to listen even if we were a hundred percent sincere."
"So we're just wasting our time anyhow," Arnie Farmer commented. "Why are we wasting our time talking dumb ideas?"
"I got a boy," Pennsylvania said quietly. "He could get to Bolan."
"You mean Leo Pussy," Marinello replied thoughtfully.
"That's the boy. Sergio's nephew. He's running my Pittsfield action now. I think he—"
Staccio interrupted with, "That's the boy was with Bolan back when?"
"Yeah. I guess he could make the pitch if anyone could."
"What pitch?" Castiglione cried. "We ain't decided on no pitch!"
"I mean," Pennsylvania explained, "if we decide to go that way."
"Save us all a lot of time: I'm not deciding that way!"
Marinello said, "No harm in talking it over, huh Arnie? Let's think of it as flexibility, huh? Maybe we could have twothings going at once. Like Appaloosas and stevedores… you catch?" He winked again, while shielding his face from the view of Joe Staccio. "Like a horse race, eh?"
"I don't know what you're getting at," Arnie Farmer Castiglione said sullenly.
"Well, let's just talk the possibility. Suppose we set up two programs. Huh? We turn Joe loose at this end, turn you loose at yours, see who gets to the finish line first. Huh?"
"Bullshit," Arnie Farmer replied.
"No, I'm serious." Marinello's glance flashed to the Pensylvania boss. "You really think this Leo Pussy could get next to Bolan?"
The other shrugged his shoulders. "If anybody can, he can."
The shrewd eyes moved to Staccio. "How about it, Joe? You want to sit down with Leo the Pussy and discuss things?"
The upstate man nodded solemnly. "I'll give it a try."
"I say bullshit," Castiglione coldly commented. "I already tried that route. Trying to get next to Bolan, I mean. I sent him a nigger friend. He sent me back a planeload of dead soldiers."
"I still think it's worth a try," Staccio insisted.
"All right, let's talk it up this way," Marinello suggested. "Arnie, you head up the contract campaign. You'll have Nick Trigger as your number one boy, and you sure can't complain about that. You also got Danno and his crew. You add whatever else you think you need, and you go after Bolan's ass. Joe, you take whatever you need and go after his head. How about it? Does it make sense? I'm asking all of you, now. What do you think?"
"I still say bullshit," said Arnie Farmer. "But I'll go along with it, even if it is dumb… if that's what everyone wants. But understand this. I take no responsibility for what happens to Joe or this Leo the Pussy.
We'll just get in each other's way, and my boys are going to be shooting first and talking afterwards."
"Why do you keep saying it's dumb?" Staccio asked.
"Because," Castiglione replied, "if this Leo can get next to Bolan, he can get there also with a gun in his hand… and I don't see—"
"What you don't see is that Bolan is more than a common rodman. That boy has a sixth sense about this stuff. I been studying him, ever since Miami. I keep thinking about the Talifero brothers. Also I just can't forget this fantastic stuff he pulled off at Palm Springs, against Deej and his boys. He's got something going for him, I don't know what. But you got to remember, every cop in the world is after this boy's ass, just like us. And he keeps dancing away from them just like he does us. It's a sixth sense, that's what, and he can smell a trap two days before he gets to it. He's—"
The boss from New Jersey interrupted with quiet laughter. "Maybe he uses black magic, Joe," he said. "He puts on this black suit and turns into a devil or something."
Another man at that table shivered and said, "Shit, don't even kid about that."
"What I'm saying," Staccio went on grimly, "is that I have to go into this thing with a very sincere approach. No tricks, no traps, straight all the way. The horse race ends the minute I make contact. We got to get that straight right now. And whatever I make with Bolan, I make with all the authority of the full council. It's got to be like a contract hit—all the families have got to honor it. That means everybody, not just us here now, but all of us, and that means also Arnie the Farmer Castiglione and the Virginia bluebloods."
Marinello had been watching Castiglione during the speech. He nodded, his eyes still on the man from Virginia, and said, "Our word is our honor, Joe, like always."
"Okay, just so we all understand that. Otherwise, if I got doubts myself, then Bolan will tumble to it, and then Joe Staccio is in one bad spot."
Castiglione smiled wryly and observed, "I believe Joe is superstitious."
"No, he's right," Marinello said. "I go along with that, Joe. If we can come to an agreement here, between us, then we'll set up a telephone conference with the others and we'll get it all ironed out. So what do we say. Are we agreed to try it?"
"We gotta know the terms and the details, Augie," Pennsylvania said.
"Well we got all night to knock it around, huh?" Marinello replied.
"Let's talk my end first," Castiglione suggested. "I'm already thinned out over Bolan. I'd like to have a crew from each family, and that means they pay their own way, too."
"I'll loan you Jimmy Potatoes and his crew," Pennsylvania shot back.
"I'll send Tommy Thompson and company," said Marinello.
"Scooter Rizzo," chimed in another New York boss.
"Okay, that's great," Castiglione said. "When you set up that phone council, I'll want talent from each of them, too."
Marinello solemnly nodded his head. "Okay. This is a great approach. Now let's talk about the other end. How do you figure we can support your effort, Joe?"
"Well, first of all, let's talk about the package I'm going to offer Bolan. It's got to be attractive. I mean, not just a truce, but something he'd really go for, something with a future. Let's talk about rank in the organization. With the Talifero boys temporarily out of the picture, we need a hard arm for the Commissione. I'm thinking—"
"Aw shit!" Castiglione cried, aghast with what Joe Staccio was thinking.
"No now, wait a minute, Arnie," Marinello said, favoring his old buddy with a sly wink. "Let's let Joe talk about it. Go ahead, Joe, I
believe we're getting somewhere."
"Okay," Staccio said, "what I'm thinking is…"
And so it went, into the long night at Mafiaville, with frayed nerves, heated passions, cold fears, and a stab at reality. The final result of this "crisis conference" would find a terrifying impact on Mack Bolan's violent domain, and the severest test yet of his holy war with the underworld. Bolan's long night had not ended. It had only just begun.
Chapter Eight
Psyched in
Bolan awoke to total darkness. His hand found the grip of the Beretta and he lay very still until his mind had found its place and he knew where he was. With this knowledge came a wavering image of a beautiful girl with flawless flesh snuggling to him in a warm embrace, and he had to wonder if the memory was valid. He was alone in the bed now, that much was certain; he pushed silently away and reconned the darkness until satisfied that no other presence shared the apartment with him.
He returned to the bedroom and turned on a lamp. His digital calchron revealed that fourteen hours had elapsed since his arrival at Queen's House, and the clutching at his stomach was indicating that he'd been much too long without food. The flat's heating system was functioning now; he had no sensation of discomfort as he padded nakedly about the bedroom for his clothing. He donned the black nylon nightsuit and strapped on his gunleather, then went straight to the kitchen. Eggs, milk, and bacon were in the refrigerator. He immediately stirred two raw eggs into a class of milk and consigned this to his clamoring stomach, then lit the fire under the coffee pot and returned to the bedroom.
It was then that he found the note from Ann Franklin. It lay across his stack of money and read, "Meet me at Soho Psych at 11:00 P.M." Lying atop the note was a glossy book of paper matches, the embossed cover proclaiming that Soho Psych was the swingingest place in London. It also provided the address of the meeting place.
Bolan finished dressing, adding herringbone tweed slacks and jacket and a fresh shirt and tie over the skinsuit. He pondered briefly over the money, then transferred most of it to the little pouch at the waist of the nightsuit. The only small bills, two American fifties and five British 10-pound notes, went into his wallet.
By 9:30 he had consumed a comfortable mass of bacon and fried eggs, and the quart of milk, and was topping off with lukewarm coffee. It was time to move out. He went quietly down the rear stairs to the garage, opened the trunk of the Lincoln, and contemplated his arsenal. The Vzisubmacbinegun went under the front seat, along with a stack of ammo clips. It was a fine little weapon, using the standard NATO round and featuring a folding stock which reduced overall length to about seventeen inches. After a brief mental debate, Bolan took the Weatherby and a belt of ammo to the apartment and stashed it in the bedroom closet. Then he returned to the car and drove to the edge of the Soho district, found a parking place on a side street around the corner from Ronnie Scoffs, the renowned jazz club, and joined the foot traffic on Frith Street.
Here was London night life in all its late twentieth century splendor… and squalor. It was Greenwich Village and Fisherman's Wharf rolled into composite, an assortment of joints, dives, stripperies, fish-and-chip houses, fine restaurants of all nations, and the ever-present discotheques and go-go palaces. Bolan strolled casually through the neon jungle, orienting himself and getting the feel of the area, walking in an atmosphere of far-out jazz, electronic flashers, and the jarring crescendos of rock amplitudes. He found Soho Psych precisely where the matchbook advertising promised he would, "on Frith, just off the square," snuggled in between a Pakistani restaurant and a rundown theatre whose billboards offered "the best in London flesh."
Bolan was an hour early, and this was by design. He went on by the club, crossed the street at the corner, and wandered back slowly. Diagonally across from his target was a budget self-serve restaurant, calling itself a tea house but very obviously a cafeteria. It provided tables near the front windows, and though Bolan's appetite had been fully sated in Ann Franklin's kitchen, he entered and went through the motions of purchasing a meal, filling his tray with an assortment of selections from the buffet.
The girl at the cash register glanced at his tray and said, "That'll be six and six, sir."
Bolan was reaching for his wallet. He said, "Six and six what?"
She smiled understandingly and inquired, "American?"
Bolan nodded and slipped a ten pound note from the wallet.
Still smiling, the cashier explained, "Your bill is six shillings and six pence, sir." Then she saw the ten pound note, the smile faded, and she asked, "Is that the best you can do?"
He muttered, "I'm afraid so."
The girl made change for his seventy-eight cent purchase from an equivalent twenty-four dollar note, gave it to him rather grumpily, and watched disapprovingly as he casually dropped the change to the tray and made his way to a front table.
He dawdled there for forty minutes, forcing himself to eat some of a steak and kidney pudding, grilled tomatoes, and several other tidbits of English diet. His view of the street was unobstructed, and he was cataloging all traffic in and out of Soho Psych.
At ten minutes before eleven a cab stopped at the club and Ann Franklin emerged. Bolan lit a cigarette and watched as she leaned back in to say something to another passenger, a man, who was obviously staying with the cab. Then the vehicle went on and the girl entered the club. Bolan waited and watched. Another cab came up minutes later—perhaps the same one, Bolan surmised—and a man got out. Bolan recognized him as the big one who had chauffeured them from Dover—Harry Parks, the girl had called him.
In the corner of his vision, Bolan became aware of another vehicle quietly edging to the curb some yards behind the cab. It was a smallish car of English make. Two men debarked and threaded their way casually along the sidewalk, then entered Soho Psych a few steps behind Harry Parks. The car moved forward and another man stepped out just above the club, and crossed over to Bolan's side of the street. Bolan watched this last man, studying him intently, as the man lit a cigarette and leaned back against a lamp pole as though waiting for someone.
Bolan knew who the man was waiting for. He sighed and unbuttoned his shirt, withdrew the Beretta and held it in his lap as he affixed a silencer to the barrel, then returned the pistol to the side leather. The stage was fully set, it seemed, awaiting only the appearance of the principal.
So the principal left his observation post and went outside.
Bolan stood at the curb, gazing up and down the street for any further obvious signs of the hardset awaiting him. There were none, but the man at the lamp pole immediately stiffened to attention and flipped away his cigarette. Somewhere along that street, Bolan knew, another outside man had been waiting for that cigarette to fly. Bolan casually stood his ground and waited. Evidence came quickly from the direction of Soho Square, as another man hurried across the street and took up a position on Bolan's other flank. • Bolan smiled grimly to himself and crossed over to the club. He was not overly appreciative of intrigue; the time had come to make the cut between friend and enemy, to determine precisely where Ann Franklin and the Sades stood in that separation, and to engage the enemy—whoever they might be—in open combat. As he entered the club, the two men behind him started across the street.
An immaculately dressed older man stood just inside the door at a foyer desk. A quiet sign announced that only members were allowed on the premises. Bolan went immediately to the desk and told the man, "I'm meeting a young woman here. Maybe you—"
The doorman interrupted. "You'll still be required to purchase a membership, sir. It's the bloody law here-abouts. It takes three quid, sir, plus another ten bob entry fee."
Bolan dug for his wallet and asked, "How much is that in pounds and ounces?"
The man chuckled. "Bloody confusing for you Americans, I know sir. Never mind, we're shifting to the decimal system ourselves by and by. Then well all be bloody well confused."
The two men had come in from the street and were hovering near th
e door, trying their best to look disinterested in the proceedings at the desk.
Bolan fingered the bills in his wallet and asked, "How much?"
The doorman was looking at something on a note pad. He said, "Would that be Miss Franklin you're meeting, sir?"
"That's the one."
"Then I'll beg your pardon, your entry is all piped up. Sorry sir, I just took the carpet at eleven, and I 'adn't time to read me notes."
"Does that mean I go on in?" Bolan asked.
"Oh yes sir, to be sure sir. You proceed on through the bar, down the stairs, across the clubroom, and up again to the mezzanine. Room number three, sir."
Bolan dropped a tenner on the desk and said, "Let's keep our little secret."
The ten pound note disappeared immediately beneath the doorman's hand. He said, "We're the soul of discretion, sir. By the by, are those two gentlemen at the door accompanying you?"
Bolan said, "Not hardly."
"I'd say that's a bit unfortunate then, sir. Those chaps are Scotland Yard."
Bolan's eyebrows rose. He murmured, "Thanks," and went on into the spider's den.
The game had changed, disconcertingly so, but there was no turning back now. The only way out led straight into the jungle.
Chapter Nine
Trap play
Soho Psych was fairly representative of the rock music clubs that proliferate upon the London scene, most of them appearing and disappearing with amazing rapidity. This one was unique chiefly because of its seeming permanence. It had remained on the "in" list for several seasons, drawing locals and tourists alike and packing the house nightly while competitors rose and fell in cycles typical of the new mod culture of swinging Londontown. The club had become a favorite watering hole for local musicians as well as visiting ones, and thus was also a favorite of the "groupies"— the young girls who followed the rock groups about.
The bar itself offered no live entertainment, unless the nude models who posed in glass cases, tall tubes, really, all about the place could be classed as entertainment. The bar was overflowing with a standing room crowd and the conversational level was about equivalent to roaring surf on a rocky shore. The only light came from the glass tubes of the living mannequins, in varying and changing shades, each girl changing her pose with each alteration of the lights. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them.
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