Vannaducci had been “in trouble” for some time, and just about everybody knew it. He was old and sickly. He had never been known as an iron-fisted administrator; his territories had been getting out of hand for years, with ambitious young Turks jostling to the forefront and competing with one another for the ripe pickings abounding everywhere in the empire that stretched from Florida to Texas, from the Gulf to St. Louis, and in virtually every facet of enterprise—legal and illegal—known to the American economy. There was the shipping of the second largest port in the country, the unions, the oil, natural gas, pipelines, warehousing and trucking, banking, construction, horseracing, organized sports—and, of course, backing it all was old New Orleans herself, an aging harlot-queen who smiled beneficently on every vice known to man.
Other Mafia families had often cast lecherous glances at the Vannaducci empire, but none had ventured, yet, to encroach upon it. Vannaducci himself was the man and the power here, and all knew it. His “ins” were legion, his influence everywhere. The wealth of the area had been pyramiding steadily for years; the entire South was booming—Little Rock, Atlanta, Memphis, Nashville, Jackson, Montgomery—all were exploding at the seams and running over with the boom of an unprecedented expansionist economy—and Marco Vannaducci was present in some guise in all of it.
On two past occasions when the amici in the North had seemed ready to risk interfamily confrontation with an expedition into the golden honey-pot of the South, Vannaducci had anticipated their intentions and headed them off with conciliatory “grants” of silent partnership in various new enterprises, an arrangement in which outside capi were allowed to invest moderate sums and reap windfall rewards—sometimes on an overnight basis and without even knowing the identity of the enterprise. Vannaducci himself consciously realized that such arrangements were outright payments of tribute to his brothers in the North; so, too, did they. Some of them had begun referring to the old man jokingly as “the broker”—and, of course, such disrespect had a way of getting back to its object.
So, sure, Vannaducci knew. But he had learned long ago that false pride could be a hell of an expensive way to kid oneself. He was old and sick. The feds were after his hide, wanted to deport him. His own young Turks were staking out their inheritances and busting their britches to step in and take over. A man in this position could tolerate a bit of disrespect from outside territories if it would help keep the peace a little longer.
“A little longer” was all Marco Vannaducci had to hope for, anyway. Either by old age, by assassination, or by deportation—his end was in view.
Of all the alternatives, the one feared most by Marco was deportation. This was home, this town. He’d lived here most of his long life. He’d grown rich here, gained “respect” here—it was the place he chose to die. A man of seventy-five thought of such things: a place to die, a place to be buried and remembered. Marco Vannaducci would be buried in his own tomb, on his own land, in his own country—not, by God, in some crumbling little cemetery in Central America—and by no means in a foreign and faraway land like Italy, born there or not.
And now they were saying that this Bolan boy had come roaring into town. Well … Marco was not afraid of Mack Bolan—not mortally afraid. He had respect for the boy, sure. You just naturally had to respect a boy with a reputation like his. But an old man who’d lived through seventy-five years on sheer grit and cunning knew that things were not always as they appeared—reputations were not always entirely earned. Sometimes they grew by their own weight. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the empire needed no rattling and shaking—not by anybody—especially not by a boy who operated the way this Bolan was said to operate. Reputation or not, the guy always left a wake behind him like a battleship, and in that wake were always a lot of ruined enterprises, bleeding territories, dead men, confusion, chaos. This was the last thing in the world desired by a man of seventy-five who was just trying to hold it all together long enough to die decently in it.
And Marco was hoping that the newest “Bolan flap” would turn out to be a false alarm.
Those men now gathering downstairs were the most trusted lieutenants of his empire. Some were pretty young, sure—and maybe one or two were still a bit wet behind the ears—but they all believed in Marco, looked up to him, trusted him, and you just couldn’t say that about all the boys he had under his wing. Some were just so much rotten shit. Marco knew that, had always known it, even when he made them, he’d known it. But every empire needed a certain amount of rotten shit in it. It kept the others on their toes, gave vigor to the whole organization.
But these men gathering downstairs … well, now, Marco Vannaducci would bet the whole empire on them—hell, he was doing just that! They were men. Men! Not skulking hyenas, not belly-sliding snakes in the grass, not buzzards circling to strip the bones of a sick old man who wanted only to die with honor and dignity on his own plot of turf. Men!
These men would hold the empire together.
And they would, by God, inherit it. All of it!
Such were the thoughts of the tired old man as he went to the curtained French doors to gaze upon the grounds that had come to mean so much to him. Magnolia trees, beautiful, standing in state and lining that long and picturesque drive from the old River Road—oleanders, pure poison from root to bud, but beautiful in their season—mimosa, tulip, weeping willow—acres of lawn and bush and flower gardens. Some day it would all be a public park—Vannaducci Park—yeah, a fitting place for a man of dignity to be buried.
Dawn shadows were just beginning to creep across those grounds, and something was moving with them—a car, swinging hesitantly off the old River Road and moving slowly along the lane. Vannaducci watched with vague apprehension as the vehicle halted at the gate, passed the challenge of the hardforce there, and lurched on through. It was the familiar blue-white Continental owned by Tommy Carlotti, but there was something wrong about the way that car was moving. Tommy never drove a car that slowly in his whole life. Either something was wrong with the car—or something was wrong with Tommy—or that was not Tommy.
Vannaducci shrugged off his dressing gown, grabbed his suit jacket off the back of a chair, and hurried downstairs in his shirtsleeves.
He was standing in the entry hall and completing his dressing when the door banged open and Ralph Pepsi, the watch captain, came charging in.
“What’s up?” Vannaducci asked in a voice that did not quite conceal the vague uneasiness lurking there.
“It’s Mr. Carlotti, here finally. But he’s got a problem. He wants Johnny Powder out there double quick.”
The capo snapped his head to the side and growled, “Then you better get him.”
The guard captain hurried off toward the back of the house. Vanaducci stepped outside just as Frank Ebo, the house boss, was starting down the broad steps to the portico. The Continental was pulled to the curb down there, and the strained, unhappy face of Tommy Carlotti was visible through the front window.
Frank Ebo was a big man with a perpetually red face and worried expression—a total pessimist who saw invisible feds behind every tree and nonexistent bugs in every telephone and flower vase. But he was a good house boss, a comfort to have around. It was Ebo’s job to be worried.
He was skirting around the front of Carlotti’s vehicle, where he paused to kick a tire, then he drew back as though seeking a different angle of vision. He was not looking at the tire, though, as he called out, “G’morning, Tom. Problem with the car?”
“No it’s fine, the car’s fine,” Carlotti replied in a curiously flattened voice. “Except the damn thing is going to blow up any minute.”
Ebo chuckled, then stiffened and asked, “You serious?”
“You don’t see me laughing, do you?”
“Then get the hell out of it!”
“Can’t. Guy says it’s a dead man’s trigger. Soon’s I let go—blooey! What the hell’m I gonna do, Frank?”
“Can you drive it?”
“’Course I can drive it. I drove it the hell in here, didn’t I?”
“Then drive it the hell out!”
“F’God’s sake, Frank! I came for help!”
“You’ll get it, but not here at the front door! Drive it out!”
“Where to?” Carlotti asked in a defeated voice.
“Well, shit, anywhere! Take it out on the grass—way out on the grass!”
“You don’t know what I’m going through!” the tortured man yelled. “My fuckin’ foot’s going numb, I’m tellin’ you! One little slip, Frank, and …”
Vannaducci intervened at that point, calling down, “You gonna be okay, Tommy boy. Johnny Powder’s coming. Now you do like Frank tells you. Frank, lead the way. Take ’im out there in the oval by the hedges. Tommy—you just follow Frank, slow’n easy though.”
An overwrought Ebo called back, “You shouldn’t be out here, Marco. Maybe you should go back inside.”
“Maybe you oughtta let Marco decide where Marco oughtta be,” the old man retorted. “Go on now and do what I said!”
The house boss pivoted about and strode quickly along the drive and onto the lawn, calling heated instructions to unseen hardmen as he did so. “Stay clear of that car! It’s got a bomb! Alfie and Herm, stick to Mr. Vannaducci! Two of you boys run down to the gate and back up that crew, but stay outta sight! This could be a trick, so let’s watch it! Alla you boys keep moving, don’t just stand around! Eyes and ears open!”
He guided the threatening vehicle to a position on the front lawn about fifty yards from the house.
Vannaducci descended to the yard and followed at a discreet distance with a couple of Ebo’s men falling in, a step behind, at each elbow. Other men were straggling from the house, attracted by all the commotion. In that group were Harry Scarbo, Vannaducci’s man across the river in Algiers; Rocco Lanza, the financial go-between for many of Vannaducci’s semilegit activities; and strongman Enrico Campenaro, chief enforcer for the entire empire.
Johnny Powder, an explosives expert, was in the rear but moving up quickly, in shirtsleeves and carrying a toolbox.
Out on the lawn, Frank Ebo was maintaining a respectful distance from the vehicle, now safely distanced from the house. “What kind of bomb, Tom?” he asked, as though merely hoping to keep the other man’s mind busy.
“Hell, I don’t …”
“What’s it look like? I mean, the gadget—the thing you’re holding.”
“I’m not holding anything. I’m holding it down. Just a box, a little box. About six inches square. Maybe three inches thick. Stuck to the floor beside the brake pedal. There’s a button on top, a metal thingamajig. The guy armed it, and said I had fifteen seconds to get that button down and keep it down.”
“What guy?”
“What guy! Jesus Christ, you don’t even know what guy?” Carlotti was obviously falling apart quickly—the voice shrill, shaky. “Some mortgage that is, some fancy goddam … listen, Frank … now, listen! My foot’s getting numb. I can’t even feel the damned thing, and my leg is shaking off. You get somebody out here quick that can do something more’n ask dumb questions!”
“He’s coming, Tommy. Take it easy. He’s coming. Listen. Bend down and try rubbing the foot. Keep the blood circulating. Or stomp it with your other foot. Keep the pressure on that way.”
“I’m not stomping nothing,” Carlotti growled raggedly, but obviously more composed now. His head disappeared from view.
Vannaducci, listening to all this from a safe distance, moved to intercept Johnny Powder. He grabbed his arm and gazed somberly into the bomber’s eyes as he told him, “You get Tommy boy out of that jam, Johnny. None of us’ll ever forget it.”
The expert responded with a worried nod of the head and moved on.
The capo tailed along until he reached Ebo’s position. The house boss briefed Johnny Powder on the situation, then asked him, “Does that sound straight to you?”
“Sure,” the bomber replied casually. “Simple circuit breaker. Little insulated plunger goes down between the contacts. Spring-loaded gadget. Release it and you get contact. Get contact, and you get a big boom.”
“We don’t want none of those,” Vannaducci interjected.
Ebo asked, “He wouldn’t have time to release it and scramble out of there?”
“I couldn’t say that for sure. Prob’ly not. That’s, uh, Tommy Carlotti in there?”
“Yeah. And going to pieces fast. You may not have much time, Johnny.”
“What’s he doing? I don’t even see him.”
“I think he’s trying to hold the foot down with his hands. Says his leg’s shaking, foot’s numb. Wouldn’t even knew if his foot slipped off.”
“He’d know,” Johnny Powder said. “We’d all know.” He shot a troubled glance at Vannaducci.
“What can you do?” the old man asked.
“Depends. We might both get blown up. But …” The bomber lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, dropped it and put it out on the grass, and sauntered to the vehicle—calmly calling out, “Okay, Mr. Carlotti, just keep that plunger engaged.”
Carlotti’s strained face appeared at the window. “The—my leg’s jumping like crazy,” he reported. “I’m trying to hold it steady.”
“You’d better. Can you reach the plunger with your hands?”
“No. The damn steering wheel …”
“I’m going to open the door. Now don’t let go. Keep that thing engaged. We’ll be laughing at this tomorrow over a couple of sweating broads. Eh? Right?”
Carlotti managed a nervous cackle and replied, “You’re my man, Johnny. Anything you say.”
“Then I say it’s hot broads tomorrow, for both of us.”
Johnny Powder was on his knees and leaning into the vehicle with head and shoulders inside, tool kit on the ground beside him. After a moment he told Carlotti, “Okay, I got it, but wait a minute now, don’t relax yet. Don’t move till I tell you to. See, here’s where we are now. I got a clamp on the shoe. But there’s not much sole there to hang onto—that’s really not much of a shoe, Mr. Carlotti. It could slip loose if we’re not careful. Here’s what, now. I’m going to unbuckle the shoe. When I say, you slip your foot out, but do it real easy. I mean, don’t move that shoe a hair, not a hair.”
“God, it’s numb. I can’t even feel …”
“I’ll help. Here we go now. Come on … easy … eee-zy.” The bomber let out a long sigh. “Okay. It’s broads tomorrow, Mr. Carlotti.”
Then the underboss was tumbling from the car onto hands and knees in the grass, crawling vigorously for safe distance. Ebo ran forward to grab his arm and pull him along.
Johnny Powder remained at his post, kneeling in the open doorway.
Scarbo, Lanza, and Campenaro had joined their capo at the edge of danger.
Carlotti was sprawled on his back at Vannaducci’s feet, gulping air and trembling with the release of tension. Ebo, kneeling beside the rescued underboss, asked him, “How’d you get in a mess like that?”
Before Carlotti could find breath enough to reply, the bomb expert’s muffled yelp announced from the vehicle, “Something’s funny here! It’s got another—”
Something in there popped and sizzled. Johnny Powder flung himself out of there backwards and rolled across the lawn at the same instant that a muffled miniature explosion at the rear of the vehicle puffed open the trunk hood and sent both rear doors askew and gaping.
Ebo had instinctively gone to full prone alongside Tommy Carlotti and brought Vannaducci tumbling beside him. The other bosses quickly followed suit; enforcer Campenaro hit the ground with a gun in his paw.
Johnny Powder, alive and apparently well in the grass, gasped, “Wise bastard! Had another gadget on the bottom of the box. Soon as I moved it …”
Vannaducci growled, “What the hell is it, then? Is that all it’s gonna do now?”
The bomb man lurched to his feet and grimly closed on the problem once again. Gingerly he peered into the rear-seat are
a, then shot a glance toward the congregation of men kneeling in the safe zone, and went on to check out the trunk compartment. He straightened almost immediately from that inspection and called over, “Yeah, that’s all. I guess it’s all he wanted to do. I guess this is for you, Mr. Vannaducci—you’ll have to come see for yourself. It’s safe now, no more surprises.”
“Come see what?” the capo growled nervously, but he was already moving forward. The others trailed out in his wake and fanned around beside him at the open trunk compartment of Tommy Carlotti’s lightly damaged car.
Johnny Powder muttered, “Charges were on the locks, see. Clean job, very clean. The guy could’ve had any effect he wanted.”
But it was not the clean job that captured the attention of the assembly of bosses. It was the cargo. A corpse lay curled in that compartment. A big chunk of the forehead was missing, and what was left was pretty messy, but there was no mistaking the remains of Big Ed Latina, the boss of western Louisiana.
“What’s this, what’s this?” Carlotti mumbled, dazed. “I didn’t know about this.”
Someone said, “There’s another one on the floor, back seat.”
“It’s Skipper Watson,” another lowered voice reported. Watson had been a Vannaducci front for offshore oil interests.
“So now we’re all here,” Vannaducci commented, his mood mixed with anger and sorrow.
“I didn’t know about the Skipper and Big Ed,” Carlotti insisted quietly. “But Scooter and his boys are gone, too. All of them, same way. Marco … it was Mack Bolan. He did this, all of this.”
The old man pried a marksman’s medal from Big Ed’s fist, bounced it once on his palm, and passed it on to Campenaro. “So, it’s true,” the capo said gloomily. “And this boy moves fast. Listen. All of you, listen. This is why I called the parley. Somebody hit our bank run this morning, over on the Pearlington cutoff. Jimmy Lista might live and he might not. All his boys are dead.”
New Orleans Knockout Page 3