And so, yes, she had rejected the understanding of Mack Bolan and of his war. She had loved him, yes, and she had wept for him … but she had not found that understanding which justified the sort of man he had become.
But now that understanding was forming. It was forming against a background of terror, disgust and an overwhelming feeling of degradation, helplessness, pain and an overflowing revulsion.
Valentina Querente and Johnny Bolan were not the first human beings to find themselves subjected to this shocking state of helplessness and manhandling by men such as these. They were, undoubtedly, not the only ones receiving such treatment at the present moment. It was happening all over, everywhere, in one form or another, in every state of this land of the so-called free. And the police authorities were as impotent in the face of that other suffering as they were in this particular case.
Yes, Val was beginning to understand the forces which motivated Mack Bolan.
Those forces were outrage, frustration, a numbing and shocking realization that hordes of human cannibals were swarming this land and looting and raping it of everything decent and desirable … yes, they were robbing even essential human dignity and the right to be free from pain, fear, and intimidation.
In a sense, Mack had been fighting to protect Johnny and Val from the very beginning of his impossible war.
A much-overused cliché of World War vintage floated across her searching mind, resurrected probably from some gung-ho old movie on a late-late show: “I’m fighting so that my kids can grow up in a better world …”
Yes, Val was beginning to understand her warrior.
He was fighting for all the Johnnies and Vals everywhere, however corny that might sound. His own words to her, certainly not hackneyed, had been: “These people are a dripping, oozing mass of evil draped across the throat of this country. I’m going to pry them loose if I can, Val. Even if, in the end, the devil picks up all the marbles.”
She had accused him of having a simple and uncomplicated view of the world. In her own naiveté, the simple and uncomplicated view had been her’s … a view from an ivory tower, no doubt. There had been no shadings of good and evil; a thing was either right or wrong and there had been no rightful place in her exalted philosophies for killing, for taking a human life, whatever the provocation.
Well, the view from ground level was much clearer, even if dirtier.
But what did one do about human animals such as these, if they were able to corrupt and confound the laws of human communion?
Indeed, what could one do about them?
Mack Bolan, apparently, had found an answer. Perhaps it was not the best answer, nor even a moral one. But it was an answer. And, yes, the view was much clearer down here with the sufferers.
Yes, God yes. Find us, Mack. Not just for our own sake, but for the sake of human rights and dignity everywhere. In the name of all humanity, Mack Bolan, my love, find us!
8: Heat
Books Figarone had seen his share of living nightmares. He’d also had his full share of living in fear, of scrambling for survival. And he’d found out what it was like to be held up to public disgrace and humiliation, and to wonder if he would be spending the rest of his life behind bars.
Sure, he’d known it all.
But nothing like this.
There had been times when he’d suspected that death was lurking somewhere in the shadows and waiting for him—times when he could almost feel the heavy hand of fate weighing upon his shoulder—but no, hell no, there’d never been anything like this.
This goddam guy was death itself. This icy-eyed son of a bitch had nothing human in him that a man could appeal to. There was no handle there, no hope, not even a prayer.
The guy was death, and he had a way of creeping inside of a man and smothering him with that heavy knowledge. He even made the heart beat differently. He made the lungs try to stick together and slowed down the movement of blood through the veins.
The guy was death, and he’d sure been stuck with the right name. The Executioner, yeah—relentless, implacable, a law unto himself—and it was a law older than man’s most ancient edicts.
Figarone had known some tough guys. He’d known some mean bastards, that’s right, he’d known men who were nothing more than human sharks.
But he’d never known a man like Mack Bolan.
The guy never raised his voice. He never made any menacing or threatening gestures, never even used an angry word or tone. He didn’t need to. He just gave that icy stare and handed out those cold pronouncements in a way that left no room for misunderstanding—and, yeah, you just knew that death was standing there and taking your measurements.
For over an hour, now, the lawyer from Cambridge had suffered the presence of Mr. Death, and he’d had time to formulate quite a few ideas regarding his captor.
And he’d begun wondering how the brotherhood had ever gotten a guy like this down on them. Figarone had heard all the stories, sure. He knew the legend of Mack Bolan. But, for God’s sake, the stories didn’t tell it all. Anybody who could sit and look at the guy for more than a dying minute or two would know that the stories didn’t even begin to explain a guy like Mack Bolan.
So okay, the guy’s family had been rubbed out. And. he’d come looking for some atoning blood. So what was new? Things like that happened all the time—they happened right in the families, between some of the meanest sharks who walked on two legs. But nothing like that had ever produced a Mack Bolan.
This guy was … well, the guy was just something else. He didn’t fit anything that Books Figarone had ever come up against, and Figarone was a lawyer who had long ago decided that he’d seen it all.
But there the guy stood—something new, something altogether different from the ordinary breed of men, and Books Figarone simply did not know how to handle the situation. There were no handles to reach for.
The guy was saying, “You ready to stop trying, Books?”
No, hell no. Books was not ready to stop trying. When he stopped trying, presumably, then he would begin dying. Presumably, hell. Figarone knew that he was living heartbeat-by-heartbeat. At any moment a big splattering bullet could erupt from that miniature cannon the guy was holding on him and Books Figarone was not yet ready to stop trying to avoid that impending event.
He sighed and tried to focus his eyes on the telephone list. It was close to midnight. Already he’d called just about every name in that book. As the list dwindled, so dwindled Books Figarone’s chances for life.
He passed a hand across his eyes and told the big cold bastard, “Read that number for me, huh. My eyes are going out on me.”
The death voice replied, “You should know that number by heart. If you’re going to start stalling …”
Figarone hastily replied, “No, nothing like that. I got eyestrain, that’s all. Who uh, what is that name there?”
“Sicilia,” that voice announced.
“Oh yeah, sure, Harold the Skipper. Sure. I know Skip’s number.”
The guy was just standing there, spread-legged, the extension phone in one hand, that big silver blaster in the other. “So call him,” he coldly commanded.
An extra television set had been rolled into the room and they were watching two channels at once, anxious to get the full story on the Middlesex hit. The television people seemed to be glorying in the whole thing. They were sure giving it plenty of coverage, from right at the scene.
None of the boys were saying much.
The whole thing was scary as hell, regardless of which channel you wanted to watch, and those announcers seemed to be trying to make it sound twice as bad, if that was possible, which Harold, the Skipper, Sicilia strongly doubted.
The telephone bell erupted into the tension of the moment, and Marty Corsicana, Sicilia’s good right arm, scooped up the receiver before the second ring could come.
The boss of Chelsea divided his attention between the television special news reports and the man at the telephone as Corsicana
growled, “Yeah?”
Then the Chelsea lieutenant turned a surprised gaze to the boss and tossed him the instrument. “Voice from th’ grave,” he announced.
The Skipper glared at the television screen as he jammed the telephone to his head and said, “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Skip, this is Books Figarone,” came the tense response.
Both of Sicilia’s feet hit the floor but his eyes remained glued to the television set as he gasped. “God’s sakes! We figured you for dead!”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Skip.”
“Christ, we all figured you was up at the Middlesex joint with’ the others. We thought for sure you was laid out on a slab somewheres! We give up trying to call your house thirty minutes ago! Where are you?”
“Never mind. Listen, Skip, I—”
“Listen? You listen! Haven’t you heard? That bastard Bolan made a hit on your joint up there tonight. It’s all over television and everything. We been trying to get some words through our connections up there, but Christ, nobody is saying a damned word to us, not a damned word. Listen, that guy laid the goddam place low. I’m looking at it right now, on television—Channel, uh … hell, any channel, just turn your set on. There ain’t nothing left up there, Books, nothing but a lot of trash and smoke. You’re a lucky son of a bitch if you—”
“No wait,” came the lawyer’s agitated voice. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. I was up there.”
“What?”
“I was there. Skip, this guy is dynamite. Listen. I don’t want to face anything like that again. We have to stop this.”
“Well, yeah … sure, that’s what I say. Uh, well, how many got away!”
“I don’t know. It was hell, Skip, just sheer hell. The guy is worse than anything we ever heard about, I’ll tell you that.”
“Yeah, I …”
“I’m afraid that someone in this town has made a hell of a serious mistake, Skip.”
“I guess I know what you mean.”
“Listen. We have to cover this thing somehow. This guy Bolan has gone nuts. He’s like a crazy man.”
“Yeah, I get that idea.”
“I’m sure that whoever pulled the snatch made an entirely honest mistake. You know. He thought he was doing the right thing, hell a beautiful thing. And it would have turned out that way except for one thing. This guy Bolan won’t play that sort of game. He’s not a ransom guy. And now our engineer finds himself in a hell of a bad spot. His merchandise is too hot to be fenced. Nobody wants to touch it. Al 88 is just simply furious over the whole thing. The Commissione is furious. Every cop and police agency in the area is furious. And—the worse part, Skip, this guy Bolan is raging crazy furious.”
“Why you telling me all this, Books?” the Chelsea boss asked warily.
“I’m simply interested in cooling the thing, Skip. If you’re the guy, then hell, I want to help you.”
“What makes you think I might be the guy?”
“I don’t think anything of the sort. I’m just saying if.”
A long sigh went across the wire. “Well … so let’s say what if, then. What if I’m the guy? How would I go about getting out of this mess?”
“For God’s sake, just turn them loose!”
“Well yeah, counselor, but that would be a dumb stunt, wouldn’t it? I mean, what kind of advice is that? What if the pigeons could finger me? Have you forgot what the rap is for kidnapping?”
“That could be cooled, Skip. Hell, you know that. Anyway, that’s the least worry you—our engineer could have. This whole damn town is about to explode around his head.”
“Yeah, I get that feeling,” was the worried reply. Another long sigh, then: “Well, if it was me, I think I’d just make a couple of cement suits and bury something at sea. I mean, if it was me had that worry.”
“No! I mean, that would just make things worse, Skip. Our engineer must not harm those two people in any manner. Believe me, this is sound advice. He must release them whole and healthy.”
“Well … listen, Books. I appreciate you thinking of me this way. And the other guy, too, the engineer. If I should run into him, I’ll tell him what you said.”
“Skip. Are you that engineer?”
“Hey. What the hell. That’s no way to …”
“Listen, it’s no time for tricky footwork. If you’ve got those people, Skip, you’re in one hell of a mess. You’ll have the entire organization on your neck. Al 88 already has crews of torpedoes swarming everywhere. And I hear that the gentlemen in New York have been in session all night. They’re really upset by all this. They might be hanging paper down there right now—you know how excited they get at times like this. And to top it all, there’s this Bolan running amuck like a crazy man. If something unhappy should happen to those two people, he’s just liable to torch the whole damned town. And I don’t know how you would ever explain your way out of something like that, Skip, even saying Bolan didn’t get to you first.”
Sicilia was patting his forehead with a balled-up handkerchief. He said, “Well what do you think I ought to do?”
“Do you have them, Skip?”
The boss of Chelsea was staring at the smoking ruin on his television screen. Presently he heaved a pained sigh and admitted, “Yeah. I got them.”
“Where?”
“Never mind where. I got them in a tight place. I just wish I knew what the hell to do with them now.”
The lawyer’s voice came back sure and commanding. “Let me handle it for you. Where can I meet you?”
“I’m right here, Books,” Sicilia replied uncertainly. “How come you want to handle it? How come you want to get your head on the block with mine?”
“It’s already there, man. All our heads are on that block. I just want to get this son of a bitch off our backs, that’s all. And I know how to handle it. Now where do we meet? I mean, you know, where’s the hot stash?”
“You coming alone?”
“Don’t you trust me of all people, Skip? Hell I’m—”
“How do I know you’re not bringing Al the 88 with you?”
“On my oath of Omerta, Skip—hell, just use your own head. You’ve already told me you have them. Why would I continue screwing you around now, if I had something up my sleeve I mean?”
“You know where I keep my boat?”
The lawyer’s voice tightened noticeably as he replied, “Up by Rockport, yeah. Is that where?”
“Near there. Listen. Meet me at the red wharf at two o’clock. Can you make that?”
“Yes, I believe I can make that. The red wharf at Rockport, two o’clock.”
“Right. You come alone.”
“You know I never go around completely alone, Skip. It isn’t healthy.”
“Yeah, well sure, but you know what I mean. One or two of your boys, sure, that’s okay.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead. Sicilia slowly hung up and turned a sick smile toward Corsicana.
“Maybe I’m an ass,” he told his lieutenant.
“I don’t know, Books has always been pretty square,” Corsicana replied. “What’s he want to do?”
“He says we got to cool this thing down. He says the whole mob is raising hell about it. And Al the 88 is on the warpath. I knew that, hell he didn’t have to tell me.”
“So what’s changed?” Corsicana asked.
“Maybe nothing,” the Skipper replied. “Anyway we got a couple hours to think about it.”
“What’s there to think? I thought you already decided the thing had gone sour.”
“Sure. But I don’t want it to go from bad to worse.”
“I still think we should heave them into Sandy Bay,” Corsicana muttered.
“Maybe we will. But …”
“But what?”
“That wouldn’t end nothing. That bastard would still go on helling around looking for them. Hid is hid, whether it’s the shack or the bottom of the bay. Besides, I’m still
not sure I want to let go of them just yet. Something might turn up yet.”
“Like what?”
“Hell I don’t know like what. All I know is, it was a beautiful idea, like Books said. Just beautiful. I’m not ready to write it all off yet. Maybe we could …”
“Yeah, boss? We could what?”
“Just, uh, never mind. We got two hours. Call Angelo and tell him we’re coming out. Right away. Then get a couple of cars loaded. I’ll think it over on the way to Rockport. You know something, Marty? I hate that bastard’s guts. Bolan, I mean. I can’t hardly stand the thought of just turning yellow and giving in to him.”
“I know what you mean, boss.”
“I just can’t let him walk away from this with all the chips. I can’t do it.”
“You can’t fight the whole world either, Skip.”
“No, I guess I can’t at that.”
“So what are you thinking?” the lieutenant wondered.
“I’m not thinking, I’m weighing the catch. Now shut up and let me weigh. I gotta understand what I got here. And you better get moving.”
Corsicana grimly nodded his head and went to the telephone. He made the call to Angelo, then he went out to roust a couple of gun crews.
Marty Corsicana did not need to weigh anything, and he understood exactly what they had.
A bag of snakes, that’s what. And there was only one thing to do with a bag of snakes.
Harold the Skipper should already know that, without weighing.
You took a bag of snakes and you chopped it up and you cast it in concrete and you dropped it in deep water.
That was the only understanding that would help this situation. The boss, Corsicana knew, would arrive at that understanding long before he arrived at Rockport.
There was only one way to handle a sour snatch.
Goddammit you destroyed the evidence!
9: Mafia Motif
Take a picturesque New England fishing village. Date its origins at somewhere in the early 18th century. Sketch in a couple dozen art galleries and an artist’s colony numbering more than two hundred painters, twisting streets of picket-fenced colonial homes, and a jumble of antique stores and gift shops. Add a wave-lashed rocky shore with ancient wharves and sagging warehouses, screeching gulls, and here and there a cozy beach. Make its harbor busy with sportfishing boats, sightseeing cruisers and lobster fishermen. Give its more interesting parts colorful names such as Bearskin Neck, Motif #1, Dock Square, Front Beach, Granite Wharf, and Pigeon Cove.
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