Not enough, obviously. Two others here, far more mature, had finally learned all they ever would about that.
This one was just too damned young to …
Bolan’s hand stayed for a flickering second at the fresh nylon garrote, still coiled at the waistband; instead, he stuck a cigarette between his lips, growled, “Bang, you’re dead!” and struck the lighter in the kid’s face.
The guy just about broke himself in half trying to pull it back together, trying to seize stature and shotgun all in one motion and failing to achieve either.
He gasped, “Jesus! You scared the shit outta me!”
“Be damned glad that’s all you lost, kid,” Bolan growled, in a not unfriendly tone. “Someone else could’ve ripped your throat just as easy.”
The young sentry tried to alibi it. “I didn’t … I thought I heard … I was looking …”
“Forget it,” Bolan said airily. “Nothing out here but you ’n’ me anyway—right?”
“Right,” the kid replied, obviously very much relieved by the other’s casual manner. “To tell the truth, I been wondering why I was stuck out here. I ain’t heard or seen a damn thing all night.”
He was trying for a better look at Bolan’s face.
Bolan obliged. Better here than somewhere else, with all the chips down. He handed his cigarette to the youth and lit another, taking his time and giving plenty of exposure. Then he told him, “Yours is not to reason why. Right?”
“Right, Mister—I didn’t mean …”
“You call me Frankie.”
“Sure. Thanks. Oh, and thanks for the cigarette, sir.”
Nice enough kid. Under the circumstances. Under different circumstances, though …
“I said you could call me Frankie.”
The guy was still off balance, floundering, uncomfortable. “Right, uh, Frankie.”
“What do they call you?”
“They call me Sonny.”
“But you don’t like that.”
“No, sir. I been Sonny all my life. It’s time I made a name.”
Bolan very soberly said, “I make you Pacer.”
“Sir?”
“You wanted a name. You got one.”
“Pacer?”
“Yeah. ’Cause the first time I saw you, that’s what you should’ve been doing and wasn’t. It’s a name that’ll stick. From now on, you’re Pacer.”
The kid was visibly affected by that. In this strange society of stealth and knavery, “making a name” was somewhat comparable to a christening, or a bar mitzvah. Didn’t really matter what the hell the made name was; the important, thing was for a guy to have one, And only a boss could make a name for a guy. This kid was not so green that he did not understand that.
He gasped, “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize—there’s so many people coming and going these last few days—I mean …”
“Don’t finish everything you say with I mean,” Bolan instructed him. “People will think you play with yourself too much. Whatever you say, say it flat out and don’t be afraid someone won’t like it. Fuck ’em. Just say it.”
Sonny the Pacer smiled at that and replied, “I guess I’m kind of tired.”
Bolan did not return the smile. “How long since you had a break?”
“Sir?”
“How long you been out here?”
“Since two.”
“It’s damn near daylight. You haven’t had a break?”
“No, sir.”
Bolan growled, “No wonder you’re out on your feet. Who’s your crew boss?”
“Mario,” the kid replied with considerable discomfort.
Bolan quickly sniffed the scent of that one and tried for it. “Mario Cuba?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Go take a break,” Bolan commanded. “And tell Mario I want to see him out here in ten minutes. Right here. Ten minutes. Right?”
The kid was thoroughly shook up now. “Right, Mister Frankie—ten minutes, right here.”
The disturbed young man picked up his shotgun and trotted away, heading for the rear of the house.
Bolan went the other way—making no attempt, now, to soften his steps—and encountered the final sentry at the opposite corner of the property. He halted, took a drag from his cigarette and softly called ahead, “Who’s over there?”
A mature voice called back, “Jimmy Jenner. Who’s that?”
“Mack Bolan.”
“Yeah, ha-ha. What’s up?”
“Nearly daylight. How you doing?”
“Doing great,” was the quick response. “Already since two I laid three hot blondes, a Chinese nympho, and a spicey Italian momma. How you doing?”
Bolan laughed softly and replied, “Your dreams beat mine, Jimmy. Just do it with your eyes open, that’s all I ask.”
“You, uh—where’s Mario?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I’m going to take some ass from that boy when I find him. Sonny says he hasn’t been relieved all night.”
This one was growing quickly uncomfortable, as well. “Well, it’s not all that … uh … Mario’s been out a couple of times.” He was edging toward Bolan in the darkness.
“If you see ’im again, you tell ’im Frankie’s looking for him.”
The sentry halted abruptly. Bolan could feel those eyes straining toward him across the darkened yard. They were perhaps twenty yards apart.
“Are you Frankie from New York?”
“I’m Frankie and I’m from New York,” Bolan called back easily.
“Well, Jesus! I didn’t think I’d ever—I heard a lot about you, Frankie. I had a cousin with the Talifero brothers, once.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name was—they called him Charlie Wonder.”
Uh-huh. And the Taliferos had once been Lord High Enforcers of the national ruling council.
Bolan told Charlie Wonder’s cousin, “Too bad about Charlie. He was a hell of a wheelman.”
“Yes, sir, he was.”
“Too bad about the Talifero boys.”
“Yes, sir, that’s awful. Well, that’s the way it goes.” The guy was a philosopher, no less. “That’s the business.”
Yes, it certainly was. It was also “the business” when the brotherhood’s greatest enemy could walk casually among them, command them, and run them around his own track, break bread with them and join their secret parleys, and even build a reputation among them as “Frankie,” the hottest gun in the east.
This guy had evidently decided to venture no closer to the hotshot from the headshed.
Bolan told him, “You stick right there until I say different.”
“Yes, sir, I been sticking right here since two. I’m here till six.”
“Wrong, Jimmy. You’re there until Frankie tells you different. You reading me?”
“I’m reading you, Frankie.”
The tone of that troubled voice told clearly, also, that Jimmy Jenner was trying to read a lot more than that.
“And if you see Mario, you tell him I’m looking for him.”
Bolan was moving off, retracing his steps. The guy called after him, “What’s going down, Frankie?”
“More than you want to know,” Bolan-Frankie called back. “You just stick.”
“Hell, I’m sticking,” was the faint response.
Bolan did not doubt that for a moment. Sonny the Pacer and Jimmy Jenner could possibly be of some future use in this daring penetration of the enemy stronghold; for that reason, alone, they were alive and well.
And their chances for staying that way were, after all, about as good as Bolan’s. He had not waited for Leo Turrin’s “contact.” It was Friday. Someone was planning a feast. And Bolan did not intend that they pick their teeth with Leo’s bones. He had opted for a damned short day. And he was going straight for the enemy’s jugular. Let the vultures take what they would.
CHAPTER 4
PRE-EMPTED
The old walled estate had been built som
e time around the turn of the century, constructed almost like a castle with a dry moat on three sides and Chesapeake Bay at the rear. It had been used by bootleggers during the probition era, had served briefly as a high-class whorehouse, and had fallen naturally to Arnesto “the Farmer” Castiglione when he sewed up the territory for the mob early in World War Two.
Arnie had “patriotically” turned the place over for use as a seaman’s rest and recreation center, serving convalescing victims of the U-boat blockades in the Atlantic. It was no odd coincidence that the “old joint” soon thereafter became a thriving center for black market operations. With war’s end and a dwindling demand for black market commodities, the old joint beside the bay was refurbished and converted to a “hard site,” or militant center, for Castiglione’s east coast ambitions.
A lot of shit had gone down there.
A lot of anguish, and a lot of agony, had filled those walls. And a lot of souls had been broken in the dank basement rooms, which had once been filled with illegal booze and contraband.
Bolan had not really assaulted this territory before, except for a couple of brief forays into Washington. His battles with Arnie the Farmer had been waged on other turf, and the Farmer himself had met death in the shadow of another castle, also renowned for suffering, in a distant land. But Bolan had seen this place before … knew its history … and its dangers. So he was not venturing mindlessly into some fool’s game of cock and swagger. He was going for the jugular—and this happened to be the place where that was at.
Frankie-Bolan’s fame had preceded him into the old joint. The guy at the back door was a slightly older version of Sonny the Pacer, and he was just a bit goggle-eyed to be in the presence of such a great one. The houseman did not know what to do with his hands as he told the impressive visitor, “I didn’t know you was here, sir. I’m sorry.”
Bolan showed that guy about half a smile as he replied to that. “You’re not supposed to know, kid, until I want you to know. What’re you sorry about?”
Those distressed hands became even busier. “No, I just meant … I just heard … I mean …”
Bolan turned the smile on full force. “You mean no red carpet. Forget it. Where’s everybody? Still in bed?”
The guy gulped and said, “Larry Haggle just got back with—uh, they went upstairs, I think. I guess Mr. Santelli didn’t get to bed till a couple hours ago. So I don’t—”
“Who’s with him?”
“With Larry Haggle? I didn’t catch the … a guy from … oh, did you come with? I—”
“Naw, who’s with Santelli?”
“Mr. Damon’s here. And Mr. La Carpa. They got in about one o’clock.”
“With their boys?”
“With all their boys, yes sir. Full crews, looked like. We put those boys in the garage apartments.”
“Feed ’em?”
“Sir? Oh, they got everything they need out there, sir.”
“No booze,” Bolan commanded sternly.
The guy was scandalized by the suggestion. “Oh, no sir, absolutely no booze, not at a time like this.”
“Who’s your house boss?”
“Carmen Reddi is the house boss, sir.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Sir?”
“For the day. The plan for the day. Does he know that a hundred or more boys will be nestling in here today? Is he set up to handle that?”
“God, I couldn’t say about that, sir.”
“Then you better go roust his ass from the sack and ask him. Tell him he should get with me if he’s got any questions.”
The guy popped his jaw and said, “Yes, sir.”
Bolan scowled at him. “Well, dammit, go do it!”
The flustered houseman finally found a place for his hands. He jammed them into his pockets, and hurried away on his errand.
Having practically taken the joint over, Bolan went exploring. It had been a grand mansion, at one time, no doubt about that. Now the old joint was showing the effects of neglect and decay, indifferent housekeeping, irreverent occupants. This was not Santelli’s home; it was his fortress, his hideout. Part of the downstairs had been closed off and was not even furnished. The rest was non-decorated with what appeared to be castoffs from Goodwill, that had been thrown together in a careless mismatch. Musty draperies cloaked the windows; the carpeting, where it existed, was threadbare. The exceptions to this neglect were the kitchen and the library, or what had once been the library. The former was gleamingly modern, clean, well stocked, the latter a magnificently decorated chamber befitting a royal retreat, containing an oval desk as large as a concert grand piano, a massive conference table fully twenty feet long with matching mahogany chairs, a massage table and small gym in one corner, in-wall television with huge screen, several leather sofas, and ankle-deep carpet.
This, Bolan knew at first glance, was the seat of Thomas Santelli’s underground empire.
It also became quickly obvious why the rest of the house looked so seedy—Santelli probably very rarely saw the rest of the house. The office had its own exit to the courtyard, beyond which stood the vehicle ports and garage—beyond that, and clearly visible through the French doors, Chesapeake Bay and boat docks.
No, the guy probably rarely saw the rundown old house.
Nor would he ever see it again.
The late Lord of Baltimore was sprawled face down in a thick pool of blood atop his mighty desk—not just the torso was laid out there but the entire body. He wore socks and a black Oriental dressing gown, nothing else.
His throat had been expertly slashed from ear to bloody ear.
A small man with his back to the room was peering into an open wall safe behind the desk.
Bolan took in the entire scene with one flash of the eyes, and his Beretta was springing to hand before the full impact of that scene registered in his peaking consciousness.
The man at the safe was Leo Turrin.
Not a hair was ruffled on his head, nor was there any noticeable lack of composure as he turned coolly to face the intruder.
He sent a calm gaze up the bore of Bolan’s black blaster and said, very quietly and almost sadly, “You couldn’t wait, eh.”
Someone could not, for sure.
Someone, for damn sure, had beaten Mack Bolan to the jugular.
CHAPTER 5
TAILOR-MADE
It was a fresh death, perhaps no more than five minutes old. The safe was empty and the desk drawers had been ransacked, but nothing atop the desk had been disturbed except by the encroachment of spilled blood. It was as though the guy had been carefully placed there, then sliced like a sacrificial goat on an altar.
More than likely, though, Santelli had placed himself upon that desk—with a knife at his throat and at another’s bidding. Perhaps the safe had been opened the same way. Certainly there were no signs of a fierce, life or death struggle.
Bolan growled, “Get the hell out of here, Leo. And cover yourself.”
The little guy sighed as he said, “This isn’t your work, is it?”
“Not my style, no. Someone saved me the trouble.”
“So how do you know it wasn’t me?”
“Not your style either,” Bolan replied. “Now beat it, will you.”
“Let’s do it the other way,” Turrin argued. “You beat it while you can, and let me handle the garbage detail. This whole joint could be ringing with anguish and outrage at any minute. Half of Tommy’s boys are on the premises.”
“I know that,” Bolan told him. “Also La Carpa and Damon. Have you seen those guys?”
Turrin shook his head. “I’ve seen nobody but the kid at the door and Larry Haggle. He brought me here from town.”
“Where’s Larry now?”
“He’s got an apartment upstairs. Went straight to the phone soon as we got here. He said for a hot parley with the rest of Santelli’s lieutenants. Said I should go to the kitchen and get some coffee, than wait for Santelli in the study. This is the study. You m
ay have noted that it adjoins the kitchen. I didn’t want any coffee.”
“Larry Haggle sent you in here?”
“Yeah. Does it smell to you?”
“Sure does,” Bolan mused. “Who’s next in line to succeed Santelli?”
“Not Larry, not by vested right. Tommy kept him firmly in place as consigliere and nothing more. He’s a lawyer and dealmaker. Real name, Weintraub. So you see he’s not in line.”
Yes, Bolan knew all about Larry “Haggle” Weintraub, and his rumored role as the real kingmaker behind Thomas Santelli. His connections were supposedly worldwide, centering mainly in the Swiss financial circles.
“I would guess,” Turrin continued, “that it’s now between Damon and La Carpa. They’re the oldest and the meanest. Damon has the political muscle. La Carpa is the hardarm. The other underbosses depend heavily on both of them to keep their territories afloat. So I’d have to say Damon and La Carpa, yeah.”
“Go find those guys, Leo. Look in the garage apartments. Act like nothing has happened. You just got here, and you’re bored and looking for company. Santelli’s still in bed, you guess, and his consigliere is tied up with something else. Let someone else discover the garbage.
Turrin smiled tautly and replied, “Okay. Sounds good. What are you smelling? Someone setting me up?”
“Could be, yeah. Someone with a very long arm.”
“Like, maybe, an arm that could reach all the way from the Big Apple?”
“Like that, maybe, yeah.”
“Okay, I thought of it, too. It’s a classic, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Bolan growled, “and looking more like a masterpiece the longer we stand here jawing about it.”
“See what you mean,” the little fed replied casually. “So what are you doing? Staying or leaving?”
“Staying,” Bolan said. “For awhile, anyway.”
Friday’s Feast Page 3