Yeah, Bolan had known a couple of cops like Barney Gibson. Flaming, stubborn anachronisms who absolutely refused to get in step with the times. And there was still room in the world for a few Barney Gibsons.
There was no introduction, nor did the two men shake hands. Both pairs of hands, in fact, were pointedly kept in full view. The Captain said, by way of greeting, "So you're the guy. What d'you want with my town, Mister?"
Bolan solemnly told him, "Your town has a rotten smell, Captain. I sniff Mafia every step I take."
"So what's new?" the cop growled.
"Me, I'm new," the Executioner replied.
The Captain snorted. "You're practically dead, fella."
"A dead man can do things," Bolan said. "Things a living man wouldn't even think about."
"I guess you're right there. What've you got in mind?"
"I left a couple of samples around," Bolan said.
The big guy grunted. He stared at the Executioner for a moment, then admitted, "Yeah, I saw your samples. Pretty impressive. Those were just samples, eh?"
Bolan said, "Well, call it a pattern."
"I like your patterns, Mister. But somewhere else. Not here. Gives the town a bad feel. Look. I wouldn't have come if I'd known what was up. I can stretch, but not that much. You turn around and walk away from here. And keep going until you're clear out of town. That's as far as I can stretch."
"The thing is going to split wide open, Captain. Whether I leave it or not."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Things have become too good here. For the mob. It's time for the thieves to start falling out. They've already started."
"You have some definite knowledge of that?"
"I have," Bolan assured him. His gaze flicked to Mary Ching. "Mary can fill you in later, I don't have the time. But you better believe this. A full scale mob war is brewing here. It involves not only the organization boys but their fellow travelers as well. That means blood in the streets, and maybe a lot of innocent blood with it."
"Go on."
"So my way is much cleaner."
The shrewd old eyes were sizing him up, wondering, measuring, taking a vote. The ballot fell in the box, and Captain Gibson told the Executioner, "Okay, I'm still listening."
"I'm thinking of a clean sweep, from the bottom to the top. I'll take the top and leave the bottom for you."
"That's damn nice of you."
"Be realistic," Bolan argued. "You'll never wrap up the big boys and you know it. And as long as they're up there, this town will be crawling with torpedoes and leeches of every variety. When the big boys fall, the influence falls with them. You'll need to set up annexes to your jails to handle the load."
"So why tell me about it?" The guy was interested, though, definitely interested. "Why don't you just go ahead and do it. Why consult me first?"
"I might need your help."
"Uh huh, I guess I saw that coming."
"Nothing open, nothing that would put you on a spot. I just want you to pass a few words around for me."
"And what are those?"
Bolan smiled, for the first time during the meeting.
"Would you say that we've come to an agreement in principle?"
The cop smiled back, and it was a hideous thing. He wasn't used to smiling, and it moved all the wrinkles the wrong way. "You might say that."
"Okay," Bolan said. I'll be in touch with you through Mary."
"Why not get it all on the table right now? I'm here, you're here, let's have it."
"Not yet," Bolan told him. "I'll be in touch."
"Hell, you've got me dangling, fella. What the hell have you got in mind?"
"You'll know very soon," Bolan assured him.
He grabbed Mary's arm and they left there in a hurry.
Yeah, very soon. The whole thing would be cracking... very soon now.
* * *
"Say that again," requested Leo Turrin's troubled voice, all the way from Pittsfield.
"Something wrong, Leo? You don't sound too good," Bolan decided.
"No, I'll tell you later. I'm just not sure I heard you right. What was that again?"
"I said I want you to get a message to Augie Marinello."
"In your name?" the Caporegime asked.
Bolan said, "No, just in my spirit. Don't make the impression that it came from me."
"What do you have in common with the Lord of the East?" Turrin wanted to know. He still sounded troubled... almost cold.
"Blood, maybe," Bolan said, chuckling. "He's still the big boss?"
"More or less," Turrin replied in that curiously masked tone. "What he says at council usually turns out to be the way things go. What kind of a message, Sarge?"
"I want him to know there's a conspiracy brewing on the west coast. Top drawer stuff. Big enough to wreck the whole arm. The shot heard 'round the world, that sort of thing. Following?"
"Yeah. What's the pitch?'
"A new coalition," Bolan replied.
"Coalition of what?"
"Try the ChiComs with Daddy DeMarco as a starter. How does that grab?"
"Easy, easy," Turrin said. "I've told you things have been in the wind."
"But you didn't tell me what sort of things, Leo."
"Right, well... hell. Okay. Here's the way I'm reading. The boys hate the hell out of the commies. You know?"
Bolan said, "I know. But business before pleasure. Right?"
"So right. Business before anything. I hear they've been trading. Mostly in narcotics, but other things too. Uh, Mack... what coalition?"
"It's only in my mind, right now. But it could be for real, Leo. It could be. I'd like for Marinello to think it is for damn sure."
"Why?"
"Because I want him to shake the hell out of Daddy DeMarco."
"Okay. What's the plot?"
"The plot is simply this. DeMarco is Mr. King's boy... even more, maybe, than he's the organization's boy. And Mr. King has big ideas for the West Coast.
With trade routes to the Chinese mainland now almost a certain event in the near future, Mr. King is moving swiftly to dominate the entire import picture, and the exports to China as well. Not just narcotics, not just contraband, but the big sweep, everything. The picture forming?"
The man in Pittsfield was evincing definite interest now. "Yeah. Keep going. Uh, you're saying this Mr. King is coming out in competition with the regular mob setup."
"Right, in direct competition. Would this suggest a conflict of interest to your mind? Concerning DeMarco and his close ties with King?"
"Sure. Is this for real?"
"It could be. There's a certain old Chinese gentleman here who is definitely worried about something pretty close to that. So worried, in fact, that he has already formed a counter-coalition."
"Who with?"
There's a dime-store hood here called Franco Laurentis. Know him?"
"That guy. Yeah. Crazy Franco. They call him that because he's always had a Napoleon complex. Thinks he was born to rule the world or something, or so the story goes."
"Perfect," Bolan said.
"Yeah, well, he's also DeMarco's enforcer."
"Even better yet. He's pulling something cute on the old man, Leo. It sounds like he's trying for a takeover — or something very close to that. Uh, get this name now, Daniel Wo Fan." Bolan spelled it. "Local Chinese honcho, very strong ties with Taiwan. He and Franco have been cozying it. They're interlaced in various projects around the bay area. I believe Franco has made an agreement with Wo Fan... to kill the ChiCom trade."
Turrin whistled across the connection. There was a momentary silence, then he said, "The guy must really be crazy if he's trying to cross DeMarco. The Don is old, but he's a hell of a long ways from dead. He's eaten guys like Franco Laurentis for casual snacks."
"That's the whole idea, Leo."
"Yeah, yeah, I get the drift. Well... hell, it's a great idea, Sarge. I would guess that Franco is the head torpedo in charge of stopping
you. If, uh, if he's thinking of crossing the old man, this would be his golden opportunity."
"Exactly what I'm thinking. You know what to say to Marinello now, Leo?"
Sourly, Turrin replied, "I do. I just wish I could be out there to see the results."
Bolan said, "Well... if I get luck, Leo, I'll give you a blow-by-blow account."
"Do that. Listen, wait, don't hang up yet."
It was coming now, the trouble in Leo Turrin's voice. Bolan asked him, "You ready to tell me about your problem now?"
"Yeah. I've, uh, got something disturbing to tell you, but..."
"But what?"
"I don't want you to get all upset. I mean, maybe it's nothing at all."
A chill chased itself down Bolan's spine. He said, "Let's have it."
"Well, Johnny and Val have taken off somewhere."
Something ticked loose in Bolan's brain. He said, "Since when?"
"Since I tried to get in touch this morning. I wanted them to know I'd talked to you. They... just aren't there, Sarge. No one at the school remembers seeing either of them since early last night."
Bolan's guts were coming unglued. "Their clothes, Leo, what about..."
"Hard to tell. They left some behind, yeah, but there's no way of knowing if they took any away with them. I mean..."
Bolan's ears were roaring. Woodenly, he said, "You mean they could have been snatched."
"It's possible. But there are a lot of other possibilities, too. You remember I told you Val was agitating for a meet. They could have bugged out of there early this morning. The Frisco news was all over the television — you know how the home town follows you. I mean, I think maybe they're headed that way, Sarge. I think Val just decided, hell, to set up her own meet."
Bolan muttered, "I don't believe Val would do that. Not with Johnny along, anyway. She knows what a risk it is. No. I can't buy that, Leo."
The panic was edging clearly into Turrin's voice now. "God, I've been living with my ear to the ground all day, Sarge. I haven't heard a rumble from the boys. Not one. If somebody got to them, then they're being mighty damn quiet about it"
Bolan's voice was very cold and lifeless as he said, "Leo, please keep that ear busy. If you hear anything, the tiniest whisper, get word to me immediately."
"Okay, you know I will. What's the best path?"
"Call that television correspondent in New York. We have an arrangement. Just tell him it's a windmill emergency. He'll understand, and hell get the message on the network newscast. You know the guy?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"Okay."
"Sarge... Mack... Goddammit. I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Leo. I guess I've always known this might happen someday. I..."
"We don't know for sure it's happened yet."
"Right, you're right. Uh, thanks for — thanks, Leo. Keep alert, eh?"
"I will. And I'll get this other thing into Augie Marinello right away."
"I'll appreciate it"
"Yeah."
Bolan hung up. He stared thoughtfully at his hands for a moment, then he left the phone booth and rejoined Mary Ching on the sidewalk.
Her eyes searched his face, then she slipped a hand into his and said, "It didn't go well."
"It went swell," he told her.
"But you're wearing the death mask."
"I am?"
"You are. Was it a hard sell?"
"It was an easy sell," he replied quietly.
"What, then?"
"A personal matter. Forget it, let me do the worrying."
"Nothing's changed?"
"Nothing," he assured her, "is changed. The hit is on."
"What's next?" she wondered aloud, still giving him the searching gaze.
"The porno girls."
"What? — oh! The kids."
"Yeah. I just want to reassure myself about them. It can be a hell of a tough world for kids."
She whispered, "Yes, it can."
Something, Mary Ching knew, was very much out of place inside Mack Bolan. It was like, suddenly, he was a total stranger. Cold, hard... deadly.
She pressed against him as they went up the street, and she told him, "Hey, tough guy, I wish I knew what that contact said to you on the phone."
Bolan did not reply.
She tried again. "I mean, okay, you sold him your package. But what did he sell you in exchange?"
"He sold me," Bolan quietly told her, "the idea that this is one hell of a lousy war. Especially for women and children."
Whatever that meant. Mary felt a prickling at her scalp. It wasn't what Mr. Tough said... it was the voice he said it with.
In a small voice, she asked him, "After you've reassured yourself about the kids... what's next after that?"
"Brushfire," he said.
"What?"
He showed her a smile which was more like death stretching itself. "A Brushfire is next after that, Mary."
She knew it was an understatement. What was next, she was convinced, was a roaring conflagration.
15
The Save
It was three o'clock and only ten hours into the California battle when the warwagon crept to the curb outside the production studio on upper Geary Street. Bolan was wearing slacks and a shirt open at the neck, crepe soled shoes, a conservative blazer, and the Beretta Belle snugged within easy access.
He parked in a loading zone directly in front of the studio and gave Mary Ching a curt nod of the head. "Try it," he said.
She exited and went to the studio entrance, then returned quickly to the vehicle. Her eyes were large and worried as she reported, "Closed, locked. Shouldn't be. They're usually working right into the early evening."
He asked, "Could they have finished, wrapped it up?"
Worriedly, she replied, "Hardly. Just started yesterday."
He said, "Okay. Here's what you do. Sit right here. Don't budge for anything and don't let anybody move you away. If you hear gunfire, though, beat it quick. Go exactly one block north on Van Ness and wait for me there, even if you have to double park. Time it, and if I'm not there within two minutes, then you split. Every hour on the hour after that, cruise past the corner of Powell and Geary. You have that?"
"I have it," she assured him.
Bolan left her then and proceeded directly to the studio entrance.
The door was mostly glass, not designed for extraordinary security precautions, with an ordinary mechanical lock, the type that is built into the inner hardware. It silently came apart under the first probe of his handy little tool, and he let himself in.
There was a reception area with a low wrought-iron railing to one side, a freight counter on the other. Behind the railing was a desk and a couple of cheap couches; swung off farther into the reception area were two private offices, an unfamiliar Italian name lettered upon each one.
There were no signs of life in that forward area.
Set into the far wall was a rugged looking door of solid construction, no visible hardware. Stenciled across it in thick white letters was the admonition:
STUDIO
ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY
Bolan found the secret to the door at the reception desk, via a push-button which was hung to the underside. He pressed it. The door hummed a brief note and cracked open.
He went through without pause and into the darkened interior of the studio. It was a bit larger than he'd expected, long but rather narrow in the approaches with — probably — dressing rooms and offices to either side. At the far rear everything opened up again and it was a single large warehouse-like sound stage with overhead lofts and scattered with photographic and sound equipment.
Bolan noted three small "sets" — one had a thin layer of sand spread along the cardboard backdrop of what might pass as an ocean if something of more optical interest were placed in front of it — like, say, a beautiful nude young body. The other two sets were mockups of, respectively, a bedroom and a living room. Both were rather grim scenes; Bolan wou
ld not have liked to live there.
The only lights in present operation were a pair of white spots on the bedroom set.
A cluster of guys were standing across the front of the set and blocking most of the view into the bedroom. It wasn't so blocked, though, that Bolan couldn't catch a glimpse of a couple of scared looking lads seated cross-legged on the bed. They wore white terry-cloth robes which probably would have bottomed out around their thighs if they'd been standing, and that's all they were wearing.
The guys were mostly in shadow, but Bolan could see that they were not dressed for either bedroom or studio work. There were six of them, and the suits they were wearing were not silk, but they may as well have been. These were Chinese boys, and they looked as ornery as anything Franco Laurentis could have fielded.
A seventh guy was up on the set, standing beside the bed, posturing angrily and addressing the girls in quietly furious tones. He was an Occidental, and he wore a silk suit too.
The coalition, yeah.
Bolan moved quietly onto the beach set, found the lights, swiveled them about to his best advantage, and ignited them.
Everybody in and around the bedroom set came rapidly alive. The six Chinese boys were less demonstrative than any, but even they came around in a fanlike confrontation, plainly warlike, arms suddenly stiff and ready for anything.
The guy at the bed whirled about and did a quick little two-step off the platform like a bedroom phantom caught in the act. The girls grabbed each other, hid their heads and simply clung together.
All others were looking directly into Bolan's lights, so he could have appeared to them as no more than a vague shadow somewhere in the background.
The voice was not vague, however; it was harsh, and laden with ice as it commanded, "Cool it!"
"Who's there?" silksuit snarled.
"Death, if that's what you want, Clyde," Bolan promised.
Two of the China boys twitched. Bolan drilled them cleanly, with two sighing little phu-uts that were grouped so close as to sound like one, and then there were four.
The survivors stood rigid, frozen, not even interested in the condition of their fallen brethren, and the white torpedo took a tentative step forward, both hands stretched forward in a placating gesture.
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