New Orleans Knockout

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan grinned, killed the instrumentation, and poised the warwagon for another run along the backtrack.

  Things were getting hot in the old town, and not just for Mardi Gras!

  10: TRACKING EAST

  The excited but restrained tones of Bolan’s best friend in the world came clipping through the long-distance hookup between Louisiana and Massachusetts. “Well, Jesus, it’s about time. I had just given you up for the third schedule in a row. Hey—you know how far it is from my joint to this damn phone booth?”

  Bolan was wheeling casually along Robert E. Lee Boulevard, running in thin traffic while maintaining optic contact with the procession of Lanza vehicles several blocks ahead. “Sorry, Sticker. I’ve been busy.”

  “Sticker” was the open-line code name for Leo Turrin, an important underboss in a Massachusetts family—also an undercover federal agent. The double life of Leo Turrin tripled onto the thin edge of a knifeblade in his friendship with Mack Bolan, a fugitive from both sides of Turrin’s world. They had been friends since Bolan’s first campaign, in the hometown of Pittsfield.

  “Yeah, I know how busy you’ve been,” Turrin replied. “Your busy has been coming in from both sides of the street. I was on the horn with Washington ’bout an hour ago. Somebody’s lighting a fire to get the federal taskforce down to New Orleans. Hal [Brognola, U.S. Department of Justice] thinks the pressure’s coming via Florida—the man there, you know.”

  Brognola was another long-time Bolan friend and sometime ally, though chief of the “get Mack Bolan” taskforce. The divided loyalties made things very tough on a man like Hal Brognola.

  Bolan told Turrin, “I’m on mobile phone, so watch it.”

  “Gotcha. Well, I’ve got that info you were pawing the ground for last night. You ready to read?”

  Far ahead, the Lanza procession swerved south onto Pontchartrain Boulevard. Bolan briefly consulted a miniature light-table mounted below the dash, hit the roll-frame button to sector in the street map of that neighborhood, then grunted with satisfaction and made his turn south at Mt. Carmel Academy. He was running a parallel course, now, and maintaining track.

  “You there?”

  Bolan replied, “Ready to read. Go.”

  “Okay. It’s a Saint Looey contingent, all right. Number it fifty strong and budgeted for local pickups—budget unlimited. They are now in the territory—have been for a couple of days—but staying low. If you’re interested, you’d have to take about an eighty-mile drive toward Biloxi. Stop at the Edgewater Beach and look around. Unusual scenery there the past few days.”

  “That’s local headquarters, eh?”

  “That’s the one. Swank joint, no connection, just the watering hole and staging area for the present campaign.”

  “Who’s in charge of the delegation?”

  Bolan swung west onto Fillmore Avenue, angling for the close-track down Pontchartrain.

  Turrin was replying, “Guy name Ciglia—spell it with a C and give it an exclamation point.”

  “That hard, eh?”

  “Yeah, that hard. He’s looking for more than shortbread. If he can pull this, he’s got himself a territory—that’s the prize.”

  “Knighthood, eh?”

  “That’s it. So watch him. He’ll be playing for keeps.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Bolan commented, and pulled onto Pontchartrain, a block behind his party.

  Turrin chuckled as he replied, “Well, that’s life on the knife. And that’s all I have. How’s your heart?”

  “Still pumping,” Bolan said lightly. “How’s the other side of the street look?”

  “Like I said, the fires are lighting for a move against this blitzing dude in blacksuit. Hal is still in command of the situation, but he doesn’t know for how much longer. He’s opposed to the trip. Considers it a very bad time for manhunting in Nola. But our Florida friend has a lot of clout in some high offices, you know that. He’s also about the only friend your old man there knows these days. Hal wants to just keep hands off and let the fur fall where it will. But, you know how it goes.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah. Was I hunching on target with the New York group?”

  “Right on. They’re backing Saint Looey right down the track. Seem to think it’s now or never.”

  “Well, I can’t let it be now,” Bolan said. “And you can tell Hal I said that.”

  “Hell, I agree. So does Hal. He’s contending that the sudden infusion of federal marshals into the situation will simply confuse things further. Secretly, chum, he’s tickled to death you’re there. Sees you as a balancing factor. The drift I get, though he’s not flat out saying so—I get a massive move on old man Vee within the next few months. They’re going to ship him out, for good and all. Then they believe they can dismantle his organization piece by piece. But not with new national leadership moving into the situation. That would set the program back years.”

  “Try light-years,” Bolan commented.

  “Yeah. Well. Do you need anything else?”

  “I don’t know. I have a real problem here, Sticker. Able Team.”

  “Huh?”

  “The final two. They’re on the scene and mixed in. Presently missing in action.”

  “Aw, shit!”

  “Yeah, well—I’ve got to walk softly for a while. It’s hurting the timing, but I’ve got to play the ear a bit. I’d hoped to have this scene clean before the streets go full crazy tomorrow. But now I don’t know.”

  “Well you’ve got to consider the Edgewater Beach bunch. I don’t see how you can do much more than jump when they jump.”

  “That’s the problem,” Bolan agreed.

  “Can I help with Able Team?”

  “No. So far, I think, their cover’s intact. Can’t risk that.”

  “You live a very complicated life, my friend,” Turrin said.

  “Look who’s sounding off,” Bolan replied. “Listen—tell Hal to contact Petro in New Orleans. I passed the guy a bundle today. Hal will find it interesting.”

  “Who the hell is Petro?”

  “Hal will know. Just tell him, huh?”

  “Sure. You sound tired.”

  “Name of the game.”

  Turrin sighed into the connection. “Watch that reserve strength. You’re heading into a lot of crazies. Nobody’s going to quit easy this time.”

  “That’s the worry, but it’s also the hope.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “It means,” Bolan explained, “that I’m counting on them knocking out one another.”

  “You can’t count on that too strongly. From where I sit, all the odds are on the top in this North-South game.”

  “I do need something, Sticker.”

  “Run it, I’ll try.”

  “The local pretty boy here … you know who?”

  “Shoes from Rome?—yeah.”

  “Where do you read him?”

  “Top of the list,” Turrin said immediately. “Heir apparent, second to none. Why?”

  “He’s playing games for somebody, maybe for himself but it sounds nutty that way.”

  “Insurance games?”

  “Could be. Or it could be he’s trying to work both sides of the street. Uh, this is where Able Team entered. You know their specialty. Pretty Boy contracted them to specialize on Money Man.”

  “No shit!”

  “None at all. As of just last week. It could be under orders from Mr. Vee, of course. I’d sure like to know the name of his game. Think you could come up with any sort of feel?”

  “How much time do I have?”

  “No time at all.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to meet that schedule. When will you beep?”

  Bolan checked the time and replied, “Let’s say two hours.”

  Turrin chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what you said—no time at all. I’ll try, buddy. But no promises.”

  “Thanks, friend. Watch your swinger.”

  Turrin’s dry laugh was still rattling the connection w
hen Bolan switched off and began pulling abreast of the Lanza convoy. He was counting noses and probable firepower as he made the run-by, and a side-mounted camera was recording the event for later close evaluation.

  It was a full head party.

  Rocco Lanza was gunning for bear—and the fur would soon be flying all around that town.

  Bolan grinned soberly and surged on ahead, abandoning the track at the I-10 cloverleaf and running east while the six-car head party continued southward.

  It was a rather safe bet that Lanza was indeed headed for “the Farm” for a confrontation over the bugging incident. He may or may not find Carlotti there; Bolan was betting on the not.

  Toni had not been tailed from the lakefront. There was no need to worry about her for the moment.

  The worry was for Able Group—and Bolan’s immediate instincts had drawn a likely scenario from the fact that Carlotti was the employer. The scenario ran along a typical Mafia pattern. Anyone brought in from the outside to perform a delicate Mafia mission seldom survived to profit from the assignment. The payoff was usually a bullet in the head and a cement coffin. Bolan held very feeble hopes for the fate of Blancanales and Schwarz. The only ray of hope—and it was a dim one—was the knowledge that the surveillance routine on the Lanza joint had never been worked. It seemed unlikely that Carlotti would terminate his contractors before taking delivery of the job. There could have been other complications, of course—but Bolan had to run with that one hope, and he was doing so.

  Play it by ear and walk softly—this was his understanding of the only role available to him for the moment. In such a role, there was little to be gained in New Orleans for at least the next few hours. Events that were now beyond his manipulation would have to set the pace for a while.

  Except for one consideration.

  And Mack Bolan was now en route to Mississippi. The time had come to scout—and maybe roust—the Northern army.

  11: STAGING AREA

  Bolan’s memories of the Mississippi Gulf Coast recalled a 28-mile strand of white sand beach—broken only at the center by the port of Gulfport—a palm-lined drive along U.S. 90 from St. Louis Bay to the Bay of Biloxi, the four-lane divided highway separating the white sand from the stately old mansions lining that drive—here and there a motel or a restaurant, now and then a private pier extending into the placid waters of the sound, offshore islands appearing faintly on the horizon. Beyond Gulfport would be found the more glittery aspects of life at the water’s edge—luxury motels back to back, nightclubs and fashionable restaurants, flashy marinas and amusement parks, culminating finally in the frenzy of Biloxi with her hundred and one bars and dives, strip joints and hamburger stands, clip-joint casinos and fleshstands, and all the trappings that earned the subtitle of “Little Las Vegas.”

  That was the tourist’s-eye view. There was more. For instance, the amalgam of local cultures that echoed and mingled the early and shifting influences of Spain, France, England, and Africa. A quarter of a mile inland from those man-made beaches could be found sweet-smelling jungles, Cajun communities, rural ghettos, wealthy plantations. Gulfport was a bustling and thriving seaport and commercial center, Biloxi the home of a large and stable fishing fleet. A few miles from St. Louis Bay was a large NASA test site; professionals from that facility had made homes in Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Long Beach—and a few as far away as Gulfport. Many of the beachfront homes were owned by natives of New Orleans, Jackson, and other nearby inland cities. Biloxi had an air force base and training center. Pascagoula, just across Biloxi Bay, was an active shipbuilding center.

  The flavor of the area was thus a mixed one. Add to that the universal flavoring of a seacoast resort, and it would seem virtually impossible to pinpoint an alien presence along the 28-mile stretch of sun and fun. Mack Bolan, however, possessed a special nose for the aliens he sought; if they were here, he would find them.

  There’d been some changes in the Edgewater Beach area since Bolan’s last visit quite a few years back. A large, beautiful shopping mall had been added to the local scenery. A new marina, impressively modern, was connected to the luxury hotel by a pedestrian bridge over the highway. Other changes—some good and some not so good—were noted as he made a slow pass along the eastward leg of U.S. 90, then circled back to enter the sprawling grounds of the landmark hotel.

  The time was just past noon, the sun high in the sky and warming to the landscape. Bolan donned dark glasses, yachting cap, casual jacket over the Beretta shoulder rig, left the warwagon parked conspicuously between a sports car and a limousine, and headed directly for the lobby.

  Guys in small groups were strolling aimlessly about the golfgreen-type lawn. Some stood about idly in the shade of the porch. Still others prowled restlessly about the lobby area. Young guys, most of them in their twenties or maybe early thirties—well dressed, obviously intelligent—entirely innocuous to the casual observer.

  Bolan knew better.

  They were triggermen—killing time until the designated time and place to begin killing men.

  The new breed, the sophisticates—fairly well educated, reasonably well read, articulate—they could join most any group of bored businessmen or traveling salesmen and pass themselves off as the same.

  And the placard just inside the lobby told the story of this particular “convention”:

  MIDWESTERN TRADE GROUP

  CONFERENCE ROOM D

  Bolan bypassed that invitation and went instead to a house phone near the desk. “Mr. Ciglia’s room, please,” he told the operator.

  “That is spelled …?”

  “With a C. He’s here with the trade group.”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry. We don’t have a Ciglia.”

  Not by that name, anyway, Bolan thought. He told the honey-Southern voice at the other end of the house phone, “I guess he hasn’t registered yet.”

  “Maybe you misunderstood the name,” she suggested helpfully. “We show Mr. William P. Stigni as the chairman of Midwestern.”

  Bolan chuckled, with a mental nod to Southern hospitality, and replied, “Oh, yes, sure. From St. Louis—right?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Stigni left word that he will be in Conference Room D for the afternoon. Want me to ring?”

  “Thanks, no. I’ll find him.” Bolan hung up, lit a cigarette, gave the lobby area a final casing, then wandered around until he found the conference room.

  The door stood ajar. Three men were in there. One sat at a long table, playing solitaire. The other two stood at a large map tacked to the back wall, playing with stickpins and conversing in monosyllables.

  The guy at the table looked up from his cards as Bolan entered. “Yes?” he asked coolly. It was a challenge, not a greeting.

  Using the same tone of voice, Bolan replied, “Mr. Stigni.”

  A guy of about thirty stepped away from the map to give the visitor a quick once-over. Heavyset, dark eyes with smile wrinkles, but a nasty-looking mouth. The eyes lingered on the yachting cap as he said, “I’m Stigni. What do you want?”

  Bolan told him, “Wrong guy. I knew a guy named Stigni. In Texas. You’re not him.”

  “Larry?” the heavy one asked, interested.

  “That’s the one. They called him Larry Awful.”

  “I’m Bill. Larry was my cousin.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Bolan leaned against the wall, took a hard pull at his cigarette, toyed with the sunglasses, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  The guy shrugged. “Comes to us all sooner or later. It came to Larry sooner. You, uh, you were associated with my cousin?”

  “Briefly,” Bolan replied, not exactly lying. He’d executed Larry Stigni in Dallas during the Texas campaign. “I did a bit of work with Joe Quaso once.”

  “Joe’s dead, too,” Stigni reported soberly.

  “Yeah, I heard about him.”

  “You, uh, looking for a connection here?”

  Bolan dropped into a chair near the doo
r, relaxed, legs stretched forward. “Not exactly.” He tugged at the yachting cap. “Getting a bit of rest, between jobs. My New York office contacted me this morning. Said maybe I should look in on a guy named Ciglia. Said maybe he could use some technical advice in, uh, in my specialty.”

  The other guy at the map had swiveled about to give Bolan an interested inspection. The one at the table decked his cards, pushed them away, and moved his chair clear of the table. His jacket gaped, revealing hardware beneath.

  Bolan showed him a sober smile and said, “Relax.”

  The guy at the map laughed softly.

  Stigni asked Bolan, “What’d you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t say. You can call me Frankie. Where’s Ciglia?”

  Stigni said, “He’s out on the—”

  The other guy stopped him with a bark. “Bill!”

  Bolan chuckled, slowly got to his feet, went to the table, shuffled through the deck of cards until he found the right one, turned the ace of spades face up atop the deck, returned to his chair and sat down. “Where’s Ciglia?” he asked again.

  Stigni shot a reproachful glance toward the guy at the map. “Jerry’s getting in a few holes of golf,” he told the man of the black ace.

  This was better, Bolan was thinking. The black ace was a symbol for the lord high executioner of the Mafia world—an office operated directly from La Commissione—a sort of identity card for their agents. In the strange protocol of the world of Mafia, it was bad form to exhibit any sort of curiosity toward that office or toward the men serving it. It was far worse than bad form to show any disrespect or open hostility.

  The guy at the wall, a smooth-faced deadeye with “torpedo” stamped all over him, had undergone a total transformation. “How long you in town for, Frankie?” he asked amiably.

  “Just passing through,” Bolan told him, just as amiably. He winked and added, “On my way to Mardi Gras.”

  This produced a round of laughter. Stigni brought on another chorus of cackles with the declaration, “We thought we might look in on that, ourselves.” Then he told Bolan, “I’ll send someone out to get Jerry. He only left about half an hour ago, probably won’t be back ’til—”