Bolan met his lady gunner at the van, and they quickly stowed their weapons with a stony silence.
Bolan moved to the driver's side while Mary crawled in through the rear gate and secured that end, then she slid in beside him as he cranked the engine.
The van had taken numerous punctures but, miraculously, all the glass was intact.
She said, "Well. It still runs."
Bolan replied, "You see, we have this understanding."
He was see-sawing about in the turnaround when a glistening and shivering pair of porno girls descended on them.
Bolan poked his head out the window and strove to keep his gaze at eye level as he told them, "Sorry to hit and run, but it's time to buzz. The fuzz, you know."
Cynthey showed him a pained smile. "Just wanted you to know," she panted. "I recognized some of those hoods. Two of them... I've seen several times with Thomas Vericci. He's a director of..."
Bolan said, "I know, Baysavers Ink. He's also a Mafia honcho, Cynthey. Don't let people con you like that."
She jerked her head and told him, "I'm just getting that idea. I think I've been conned about a lot of things." She screwed her battered face around and said, "Listen. I didn't know about this. I think they just collaborated on this thing. You know? While they pushed us around on Geary, these others came out here to cover all possibilities."
Bolan smiled soberly. "That's the way I figure it." The siren was getting louder and Mary Ching was beginning to fidget. He said, "You kids better buzz out of here. There could be a return visit."
"What do we tell the fuzz?"
He handed her a marksman's medal. "Give them this. It's all the explanation you'll need."
Panda the Bare blurted, "Bolan! Mr. Bolan! Thanks!"
He grinned. "Stay cool and lay low. For awhile, anyway."
He dug the wheels in and burned away from there. They made it to the bridge approach seconds ahead of the official vehicles, and he turned a tight smile to the fastest gun in Chinatown.
"I guess we made it," he told her.
"Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Taciturn?"
The smile loosened somewhat as he replied, "We're alive, aren't we? What can I add to that?"
She leaned against him and hugged his arm.
"You're right," she murmured. "What is there to add."
He relented. "Okay. You were great. You're welcome to cover my flank any time."
"Gee," she replied with a wry face. "You just made my whole day."
"Not quite." They were rolling with the traffic now, crossing the big span. "It's time for that call to Barney Gibson. You remember what to say?"
She twisted the rose-petal face into a disgusted scowl. "Of course I remember what to say."
"Okay. I'll drop you at the marina. Make the call and then get clear."
She growled, delicately, way up at the top of her throat, and told him, "And I get screwed without even a kiss."
He grinned at her and said, "What?"
"Damned if I will. That phone call, old heart of rocks, is going to cost you one hellish kiss."
Bolan chuckled, and a minute later he pulled out of the traffic from the bridge and nosed into a little observation area.
She got her hellish kiss, then a couple more, then he gruffly shoved her toward the door and told her, "Make the call."
Her eyes were all deep pools of understanding and tender concern.
"You feeling better about everything now?" she huskily asked him.
He nodded and replied, "Some."
A procession of police cars screamed past, headed for the bridge and reflecting the setting sun off their windshields.
Bolan thought he spotted a black face in the lead car.
Mary watched the procession pass, then she slipped outside, leaned back in for a final look, and told him, "That was quick. I'll bet they're barricading the Golden Gate. Doesn't that make you feel important?"
He told her, "Not exactly. Uh, if I get lucky, lady gunner, let's meet you know where."
She said, "A thundering herd of dinosaurs couldn't keep me away. Mack... dammit... don't be so wild. Take care of yourself."
He gave her a solemn wink.
She closed the door and stepped back. He beeped the horn at her and swung back into traffic.
* * *
Most of it was headed the other way. It was that time of day, and the city was emptying itself.
But not entirely.
The plot was simple, sure, but Bolan was hoping it would keep a very select number of people inside the big, gutsy city this evening.
Yeah, a very select number.
Barney Gibson would not let him down, Bolan felt sure of that.
But it still was not all in place and... no Mary, Mack Bolan was not feeling that much better yet. Not yet. It was time for the Executioner to add his ante to the growing pot.
It was time to pay a call on an ambitious hood who thought he was destined to rule the earth.
Then maybe, the Executioner would feel a lot better about his world.
It was time to show some style to the king of style.
He stepped out of the private elevator and iced the foyer sentry with the muzzle end of the Belle, firmly against the forehead.
"It's up to you if you live awhile," Bolan coldly announced.
The guy was a hard item, sure, and those eyes didn't flinch much but he was thinking about long life and happier times. The voice was strained with controlled fury as he replied, "Sure, tough, let's live a little."
Bolan asked, "Who's in there?"
"Just th' boss."
"No one else?"
"Would I lie to you, guy? At a time like this?"
Bolan promised him, "If you're wrong, silk, I'll finish you on my way out."
The bodyguard felt that perhaps he should explain, to cinch the deal. In a cordial tone, he reported, "They're all out chasing your tracks. He's in there alone, buy it. Who'd of thought you'd just waltz in here? In broad daylight yet?"
"You don't like the guy much," Bolan decided.
The hardman shrugged, but carefully. "Pay's the same whether I like 'im or not. There's no pay for dead men."
If the guy was expecting a pat on the back, he was sorely disappointed. The Executioner felled him with a jolt to the throat, then made sure with a Beretta slap to the head.
He fished the key from a special pocket and quietly let himself into the penthouse suite.
A stereo tape system in the corner was recreating the Nashville sound, with Johnny Cash artistically relating the glory of the old days of railroading. Bright lights were on behind the bar. The bar itself was littered with soiled glasses and overflowing ashtrays, and it reeked of stale beer.
Franco had been entertaining.
Bolan passed on through the living room and into the glass side of the joint. All of San Francisco and goodly portions of Alameda and Marin Counties were laid out there for inspection.
The sliding doors to the terrace were open. Bolan paused beside a planter with a real live tree embedded in it and called out, "Franco?"
The enforcer was on his terrace, leaning against the safety wall on both forearms, enjoying the sight and smell in the late-afternoon sun of his city.
He was in shirtsleeves and a pearl-handled snub was clipped to the belt at his waist.
Franco turned his head only, about halfway around, and said, "Yeah, who's there?"
"Me," Bolan replied quietly.
"Me — who the hell?" Franco asked nastily, turning fully around.
Bolan had moved through the doorway. He was standing there with the Belle extended for easy viewing, and he must have presented an unsettling sight.
The enforcer jerked upright and took one staggering step to the side, his hand snapping up with the movement in an automatic reaction.
Bolan growled, "Uh-uh!" — freezing the hand with the suggested threat. It hung there, beside the pearl handle, clawing impotently and helplessly at the air.
"Let
's talk this over," Laurentis suggested in a strangling voice.
Bolan said, "Talk is cheap, Franco."
"We can make it expensive. Uh, I like your style, man. I really do. Always have. Look. I don't blame you for hitting the old man, Christ knows I don't. I been thinking about something like that myself. I mean it."
"Save the long-winded hope, Franco," Bolan suggested. "There's nobody here but you and me. So let's talk expensive. How expensive?"
"Huh?"
"How much are you willing to gamble on talk?"
The ambitious hood stared at his visitor for a long moment, trying to read him, and Bolan could feel the cogs turning behind those eyes. Presently he replied, "I guess we could work out most anything. Couldn't we?"
"Not quite," Bolan said in that icy voice. "Here's the choice you can make. Certain death right here and now. Or a chance to get away slightly dirtied and no doubt marked for death later. If you want to gamble, I'll give you that much of an out."
The eyes had narrowed, almost closed completely. "I don't get you."
"I'm going to drill you right between the eyes and shove your carcass over that wall there."
Franco stiffened again and threw a quick glance toward the city. He must have decided that there was little style in going that way. He didn't want to join the damned thing, he wanted to own it.
"Or what?" he asked tensely.
"Or you can walk in there to your telephone. Pick it up. Make two calls. One to Tom the Broker. The other to Vince Ciprio."
The guy nervously wet his lips. "And then what do I say?"
"You offer them a chance to come over with you, under you. You make it convincing as hell, or it's over the wall."
"I don't... I don't get you."
"Sure you do. Everybody in town knows what you've been setting up, Franco. You and Wo Fan."
The guy was starting to jerk around like a puppet trying to shake off his strings. He started to say something, choked, then tried it again. "You're telling me to slit my own throat, guy."
Bolan smiled the thin grim smile of death. "Depends on how you want to go, Franco. My way. Or yours. With a chance. An outside chance, sure. But... for a savvy boy like you, at least a chance. You've got thirty seconds to decide."
"Well wait..."
"Go for your gun if you'd like to, Franco."
"No I — wait a minute!"
With ice forming at his lips, Bolan assured him, "Thirty seconds, twenty-five now."
"So how do I know you won't rub me anyway, after I've called?"
"That's part of the gamble, Franco. Twenty seconds."
"You'll have to rub me. You won't just walk away and leave me standing here!"
"Fifteen seconds. I'll help you this much. I plan to lock you in a closet. I'll leave you a penknife. I figure I'll be well clear before you can cut your way out. Time's up, Franco."
The Belle raised higher and closed the distance by about six inches. Bolan gave him a clear view, right up the silencer.
"Okay! Okay! I'll play your silly fuckin' game!"
Bolan closed on him, lifted the pearled snub-holster and all — and dropped it into his own pocket.
"The phone, Franco," he said coldly. "Go cut your rotten throat."
That, Franco knew, was pure style.
17
Leaning Together
By eight o'clock the DeMarco mansion had become the scene of much coming and going, tense consultations, and urgent telephone messages.
Thomas Vericci and Vince Ciprio were very much on the scene, as were many of their lieutenants and hardmen.
The developments which gave rise to this feverish pace of activity occurred in a chronological sequence which was roughly as follows:
At a little before 4:00 PM, an urgent long-distance conference connection was established between San Francisco, Buffalo, Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, and three separate offices in New York City.
During this conference, Roman DeMarco was advised to cool things down in his town, particularly a rumored impending territorial war. It was also suggested that the commissione would view with harsh disfavor any outside arrangements of DeMarco's which could conceivably compromise the organization's infra-relationships.
Mack Bolan's name did not enter the conversation.
Roman DeMarco quit this telephone conference in a rage.
At about five o'clock both Vericci and Ciprio, at their respective offices, received telephone calls from Crazy Franco Laurentis. Each received the identical ultimatum — join Laurentis in a move to overthrow Roman DeMarco or take the slide with the Capo.
Both underbosses soberly promised to give Laurentis their decision before midnight, and then each promptly telephoned Don DeMarco to report this curious development.
DeMarco immediately sent a "delegation" to "the top of the joint" to summon the crazy man to a consultation with the Capo.
The delegation reported back that Franco's suite was deserted and that there was no clue to the whereabouts of Crazy Franco.
At 5:40 PM a "paper conference" involving DeMarco, Vericci and Ciprio was conducted in the study of the DeMarco Mansion. A contract was drawn and reportedly sealed in the blood of the three participants. Immediately thereafter, a number of tersely coded telephone messages were relayed around the town and to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Portland, Seattle, Honolulu, and Phoenix.
Meanwhile, less formal communications spread throughout the city via, mostly, word of mouth — with the result that "the silk suit brigade" disappeared suddenly from their usual haunts and became notably difficult to locate.
Speculation arose in various quarters that perhaps the underworld dragnet for Mack Bolan was falling apart.
At about six o'clock a "friend" at Harbor Precinct telephoned the DeMarco mansion with an urgent report to the effect that Captain Barney Gibson was quietly preparing a huge strike force to descend upon various quarters of Chinatown.
Several minutes later this same friend again called to breathlessly add to the earlier report. Gibson was also reportedly collecting warrants — secret warrants — for "a big sweep" early the following morning, this one directed against specific members of the Occidental community in and around Little Italy. It was further rumored that the warrants were being secretly coordinated with similar efforts in adjacent communities of the bay area.
At roughly twenty minutes past the hour of six, a physician was summoned to the DeMarco mansion to administer medication to a hypertensive old man.
As the doctor was departing, a man with an icy voice who identified himself as Mack Bolan was passed through to the DeMarco library via telephone. He talked to Tom the Broker Vericci and suggested that midnight could be the hour of doom — for everyone connected with Roman DeMarco. The caller gave special mention to a "Mr. King."
By seven o'clock all lights were lighted, inside and out, at the mansion on Russian Hill and jittery men prowled ceaselessly about the grounds and along the streets surrounding the property.
While, in the library, there was standing room only as the talk got down to the nitty-gritty business of personal survival in an uncertain world, and the hissing voice of Don DeMarco devoted itself to a series of cryptic telephone consultations with an unnamed "friend" who seemed entirely reluctant even to accept the calls.
Finally, at eight o'clock, DeMarco completed the last of these telephone conversations and turned to his cadre with a relieved sigh.
"Okay," he reported tiredly. It's set up. He'll meet with us in an hour. But we got to come alone. And we got to talk Wo Fan into coining with us."
At ten minutes past the hour of eight, a cautious acceptance from the Chinese community signalled a sure meet with Mr. King.
The hollow men, the stuffed men, had cast their vote to lean together... to the bitter end.
From his eagle perch, Mack Bolan watched them depart — three big limousines moving slowly out of the drive and easing onto the streets of the city.
He scrutinized them closely, burning details
into his scout's memory cells, and he watched until they turned down Lombard, "the crookedest street in the world."
Then he made the scramble to his battered, mud-streaked war chariot and picked up the procession as it crossed Taylor.
They made a stop and a pickup at the gates of Chinatown, and one of the vehicles remained there.
Bolan prudently made a swing around that plant and picked up the remaining two vehicles of the procession at the corner of Stockton and Sacramento.
They turned up Market. Bolan spotted them a light signal, then he swung out in casual pursuit.
The limousines went on all the way up Market to the Portola district, then started the climb toward Twin Peaks. Another vehicle dropped out there.
Bolan again ran a disengaging pattern and came onto the taillights of the target car halfway up the hill.
He was getting an idea, now, of where they were headed, and he relaxed a little. But not much. A pair of lights had kept swinging on him throughout the trip, dogging him all the way from way back on Russian Hill somewhere — or, at least, they seemed to be the same lights. He did not wish to get overly hung up on that rear vision — whatever might be back there, the target was ahead and this was where his primary concentration must be focused.
Twin Peaks is one of those "mustn't miss" tourist magnets of the San Francisco area, the geographic heart of the whole scenic wonderland that is San Francisco. From her overlooking peaks, which rise majestically above the other terrain like the proud thrust of a sleeping woman's breasts, the breathless visitor gets the entire bay area spread out below him and for a seemingly infinite distance, and it is especially spectacular at night time. In fact, the many observation-point lanes and pullovers once provided a heady lure to the lover's lane crowds, before the car-window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.
Bolan had been there many times, but neither as lover nor bandit, and tonight he was feeling a bit of tugging from both frames of consciousness. He was, he hoped, going to rob the mob... and he was going to love doing it.
Not in any bloodthirsty sense, hell no. Bolan had long ago reached the point of gagging over blood offerings... but, yeah, this was a damned important mission. Much more so than he had suspected just 24 short hours earlier. And he hoped, he hoped with an almost romantic fervor, that Twin Peaks was the appointed place for the meet. Up here, way up here where on a clear day the entire kingdom was spread out for inspection, would be the most ironically proper spot to meet the hollow men.
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