The bartender shook his head again. "Never heard of him," he repeated, with just enough emphasis to tip Bolan that he had in fact heard of him and was lying.
"He asked me to meet him here."
"When?"
"Any time. Come in and have a beer with him. Said he hangs out here."
"Not here. You must have the wrong joint."
Bolan nodded. "Guess so."
The beer was ice cold. Bolan stood at the bar and drank from the frosted glass mug, wiping the foam off his lips. It would have looked suspicious for him to walk out before he drank his beer.
The older men sitting at tables in the rear took more interest in the stranger at the bar than did the wise guys around him. He knew who they were. Retired, mostly. But rich. And some of them still powerful. Some of them could give orders to have a man killed. And they would, over small resentments. Except that now they would have to answer to the council of the Five Families.
Bolan finished his beer and walked out into the blinding sunlight of the busy, dirty street.
* * *
"Follow that guy, Antonio."
The bartender had spoken urgently to one of the young mobsters as soon as Bolan was out the door, and now the guy ordered another to tail him.
"Don't follow too close. Just see where he goes."
Half an hour later, Antonio returned to Luciano's.
"He caught a cab."
"Yeah. Sure," said the bartender, who had overheard. "Working stiff, just come in to have a beer with Vince. Didn't figure."
"I got the cab number," Antonio told them. "Wrote it down."
The other wise guy glanced at the paper Antonio handed him. He went to the telephone booth in the rear and made a call.
* * *
The bar and lounge in the Giants Motel in New Jersey was a world removed from Luciano's, but it was nothing luxurious, nothing sophisticated. Gina Claw was there at seven, as she had insisted she would be, over his protest that he might not even be back from Manhattan by seven.
"Give me ten minutes," Bolan told her. "I need to change."
"I would trust you to receive me in your room," she said playfully.
"You would. Maybe I wouldn't. Ten minutes."
"I'm more hungry than thirsty," Gina said when he returned. "I told them to give us a booth."
As they moved from the bar to the booth, she carried a glass of wine with her. When they sat down, he ordered a Scotch from the corselet-clad waitress, tipping his head and fastening an appreciative stare on her long, shapely legs.
She drained the remainder of the wine from her glass. "So, what chance is there for a family named Bear Claw?"
"I went to Luciano's," the warrior said. "I asked for Grotti. The bartender clammed up. He didn't like the question."
"I went out to see Mrs. Whittle," Gina said. She shook her head. "If she knows anything, she's afraid to tell us. I'd guess she has no idea who murdered her husband. Or why. But she didn't want to talk to me. She has children. She doesn't want to take any chances."
Bolan nodded.
"I found out something interesting, though. Whittle's local sent her a check for twenty thousand dollars. An 'advance against benefits, they called it. Something to tide her over until her pension checks start. She thinks his local is a fine, humanitarian organization. Or so she says."
"Doesn't she have any idea why her husband was killed or who killed him?"
"I think she knows. She's afraid to talk. My grandfather talked."
The leggy waitress returned, bringing their drinks. Seeing her approach, Bolan glanced at the menu.
"I'm going to go for a big steak," he said to Gina.
"I'm for that. Rare."
He ordered rare steaks for both of them.
"Your father had a brother," Bolan said. "What's happening with him?"
"He got the message," she replied. "I talked to him today, too. He's quitting the construction trades, going back home. He'll work in a gas station or on a farm, for a third of what he was making on the high steel. His family…" She paused, shaking her head. "They don't want him taking any chances."
"You can't blame him."
"He did give me one piece of information. It's the Barbosa Family that controls Dad's local. That's who he was challenging."
"Luca Barbosa," Bolan mused. "One of the old-time mafiosi."
"One of the old-time murderers," she said bitterly. "I'm counting on you to take him out."
"It's not that simple," Bolan told her. "And not that good an idea. If I take out Luca Barbosa, another man steps into his place."
"They'll remember," she said grimly. "I want them to know it's??? my father. And if you don't do it…"
"Don't even think about it, Gina," Bolan interrupted. "You wouldn't have a chance. You'd only get killed. You're not going to surprise these guys. You think they'd be surprised to have some decent citizen coming after them? Forget it. They know you'd like to kill them, and that's why you don't have a chance."
"But you have a chance."
"I don't want you to stumble into something you don't know how to control and get yourself hurt."
"I'll stand aside and watch," she said. "You've got your chance. No interference. Go get 'em. If I don't misjudge you, you've got what it takes."
When they were finished, Bolan walked with Gina Claw to her rented car in the parking lot. He had no sense of impending danger or that she needed an escort, and was moved only by the notion that it was the courteous thing to do.
Night in the megalopolis is unlike night anywhere else. The old client is that the city never sleeps. Under the white points of stars. New York-New Jersey never slept. The air traffic was heavier now than it had been during the day. The traffic on the neighboring superhighways roared and glowed. The sky was suffused with the orange glow of the contiguous cities. Red lights blinked all around — on the tops of buildings and radio towers, on emergency vehicles, on the superstructures of ships drawn up to the wharves in the Hudson, on the wings of airplanes. It was difficult to guess where they were blinking. Bright yellow glows might be from flaming exhaust gases at the refineries. The world was burdened with a dull, ubiquitous roar, punctuated by sirens, horns, shouts, sirens — There was an unmistakable excitement in it.
"Take my advice," Bolan said. "Move out with your mother. Go somewhere. If you don't go upstate, move into some obscure little motel like this one. Don't use your own name. Don't take chances."
"If I call you, will you return my calls?"
He nodded. "I promise. I won't be staying here. Call me tomorrow, when you have a new number where I can reach you. Then lay low. Let me…"
He saw the sudden move too late. A slug plowed into his lower left rib, spinning him around and throwing him backward onto the pavement. But the pain wasn't as strong as his sense of urgency. Gina!
She was down beside him. He hadn't heard another shot, but he wasn't certain she hadn't been hit.
"Gina…" he grunted.
She was all but on top of him, clutching at his chest, grabbing at the Beretta.
A man stepped out from behind the Buick next to where Bolan had fallen, leveling a revolver.
Gina pulled the trigger of Bolan's 93-R, no doubt astonished that she had loosed a 3-round burst. Undoubtedly she was surprised, too, that she had killed a man — for the hard guy with the revolver wasn't knocked backward by the three slugs. He simple doubled over and fell on his face, his heart and lungs scrambled.
When the second man stepped into Gina's line of sight, an automatic in hand, she loosed a second burst. This one was low and caught the wise guy in the guts. He shrieked in agony. He dropped to his knees, bent over his ripped-open belly, clutching at it while the blood oozed from between his fingers.
Gina turned her attention to her companion.
A slug had nicked his lung. He could tell because blood came up in his mouth. The pain was just bearable. His chief concern was that he had no time. He'd be useless in a few minutes.
; "Can you make it into the car?" Gina asked.
Thank God she understood he couldn't sit there and wait for the emergency squad. He struggled to rise, and she helped him to her small car.
Already people were cautiously venturing out of the motel, not sure the shooting was over.
Gina helped him into the car. "Where?" she asked him. "Who?"
"Call Brognola," he muttered, then passed out.
Chapter Four
"Chicken soup," a voice coaxed. "Come on, open your mouth!"
He opened his mouth, felt the spoon shoved in and choked on the warm, oily liquid that trickled down his throat.
"I never had a baby, but they tell me they do better than that. Come on."
The voice wasn't Gina's. He opened his eyes and saw Joan Warnicke. His eyes focused. She sat beside him, holding a bowl of yellowish liquid that had to be the chicken soup.
"In and out of consciousness, in and out of this world," she said. "Time to come out once and for all. Doc says you're going to live, and…"
"Joan…"
"Right the first time. Wake up. The doctor says a bastard like you could take two or three more.38 slugs and…"
"How did I get here? Wherever here is."
"Where you think, big guy? You're in my apartment in Medway, Connecticut. You've been attended to by a doctor who was honored to take a slug out of the lung of the man who is rumored to have blown away Harry Greene. A man who was similarly honored cleaned your blood out of the Hondo your girlfriend rented. And Brognola took care of your motel bill and cleaned up the mess you left in New Jersey. I like the way some Feds can cool investigations. He also let it slip, in his concern, that your real name is Mack Bolan."
Joan paused for a moment. "Who shot you?"
For the first time since he'd recovered awareness and this conversation had begun, Bolan started to remember the details of what had happened: the steak and wine with Gina, walking with her to her car, then the shot that knocked him down. And Gina had taken out the gunmen.
"Who shot you. Mack? Gina doesn't know. I'm betting you do."
'Then you lose your bet. I don't know."
"Two New York goons," she said. "I imagine Brognola knows who they were by now. He'll be here tomorrow, incidentally."
"What day is this?"
"Saturday. You lost Friday."
He pressed down with his elbows to lift himself, but the pain in his chest was too much, and he let himself back down. He became aware, too, that he lay on a bed damp with his sweat, though a window air-conditioner roared.
"How'd I get here?" he asked.
"Gina called me. She didn't know who else to turn to."
"Hal…"
"She wasn't sure of Hal, how he'd react."
"You can always be sure of Hal Brognola," Bolan replied.
"I know. He wanted to send a jet to pick you up. I told him I had taken care of getting you medical attention and had you snug in bed. Sending a Lear into Medway would have been bad judgment. Everybody'd want to know who and why."
"Harry Greene's friends…"
"This town will never be the same," she said.
"That was the idea, wasn't it?"
She nodded. "I don't promise you things are going to become idyllic here. But what you did broke the grip. They're scared. Harry's buddies are afraid to get the club going again for fear another avenger will come in out of the night and blow some guy's head all over the room."
"Joan…"
"It's true. It's going to make a difference."
He sighed, let his head rest on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "What I've come up against in New York is…"
"I know," she said solemnly. "It's a bigger fight. I've joined up."
He turned his head abruptly, too abruptly. It hurt, and he glared at her. "What does that mean?"
"Thursday you met Saul Stein," she said. "He and I were at Yale together. I called him and asked him for a job. I got it. Meet the new counsel to the Assistant Director of the Organized Crime Task Force."
"Joan…" He sighed weakly.
She shook her head at him. "You met Fox. Not enough guts to fight back here in Connecticut. The OCTF is doing something important, as you are. Well, I'm going to do something important, too. I had a taste of it when I worked at the Justice Department. I'm going to work where something important is being done."
"Harry Greene might have killed you," Bolan said. "The Five Families sure as hell will if they see any threat in you."
"Someone tried to kill you," she replied. "And would have, except for Gina."
"They would have killed me and would have killed Gina, too, if she hadn't been so decisive and fast with a pistol. Tell me, Joan. Could you kill a man?"
"The answer is, yes. I'm quite capable of killing a man who means to kill me — or you."
Bolan let out a deep sigh. "I'm in the hands of two women…"
* * *
Bolan stayed with Joan Warnicke in her — Medway apartment for three more days. On Wednesday she drove him back to New York. He was still stiff and sore, and movement was painful, but he insisted that he was ready to go.
When she drove into a Brooklyn garage that Brognola had specified, they were met by a Justice Department agent who introduced himself as Joe Coppolo. He drove them to an apartment building in Brooklyn, where a safehouse was ready for Bolan.
"Not fancy, but it's guarded," Coppolo said. "We've got other people in the building. Witness protection, you understand. It would be just as well, Mr. Bolan, if you didn't try to strike up an acquaintance with anyone else in the building. I'll be here, and a couple of other agents will identify themselves to you. Otherwise…"
"Understood," Bolan grunted.
The flat had some of the aspects of a prison, he thought, and he could see that Joan reacted just the same way, only more strongly. The entrance door was steel, locked with three separate locks opened by three different keys. There was a tiny kitchen, a bathroom and a fairly large sitting room furnished with a couch that folded out to make a bed, a dining table, two reclining chairs and a new and obviously expensive television set. It was a place where some people had spent many lonely days.
The generally depressing air of the place was relieved by a magnificent view of the East River and Manhattan beyond. A double glass door slid open onto a miniature balcony.
"I suggest you enjoy the view from inside. The glass is bulletproof." Coppolo had offered the advice when he noticed Bolan surveying the balcony.
The warrior turned and studied the agent with interest.
Coppolo was a small man, not more than five foot six and probably not more than a hundred forty pounds — though, if Bolan judged him right, it was a hundred forty pounds of muscle. He wore a straw hat, and when he took it off inside the flat he revealed a bald head. His eyes were small and in another man might have been called beady. He was wearing a conservatively cut summer-weight brown suit that failed to conceal from Bolan's eye the weight of a pistol in harness under his left shoulder.
"There's an apartment vacant in the building," Coppolo said. "We can arrange to make it available to you, Miss Warnicke, during the course of the investigation into the construction business. Mr. Stein suggests you accept it."
Joan looked around, then shook her head; she found the place too depressing.
"Well, I have a few things to tell you," Coppolo announced. He sat down. "In the first place, we kept protection over Gina Claw and her mother until they moved up to Plattsburgh. We've notified the New York State Police barracks there to watch out for any strangers approaching the farm where they've taken up residence temporarily. Miss Claw insists she's coming back to the city once she has her mother settled. If she does, it will be contrary to our advice."
Coppolo nodded toward two suitcases sitting in a corner of the room. "Those are from your room in New Jersey. We packed everything and got it out of there that night. That's a real cannon, that Desert Eagle of yours. You'll find your other stuff there, too. I bought you
a supply of ammunition. You were a little low, maybe. It's better I bought it for you than for you to buy it. It'd be a sure tip-off, a man buying that kind of ammo. Mr. Brognola has left instructions that we're to supply anything you need."
Bolan nodded. "Good."
"Finally Mr. Brognola assigned me to you." He reached inside his pocket. "This is a letter for you, from him."
Striker:
Trust Joe Coppolo. He knows his way around New York and has all the latest Intel on what's going on with the Five Families. He's a good man, too — the kind you like to work with. We recruited him from NYPD, where he was an effective man but unhappy with their style of operation, especially the departmental politics. Some NYPD people don't like him, but they're all scared of him, first because he can be tough as hell, second because he's a Fed now.
Be careful of the two women, guy. I don't doubt their good qualities, but their enthusiasm is apt to get them hurt — or get you hurt trying to save them. I know you'd rather work alone, but this is a big one.
He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "Okay," he said. "Where do we start?"
* * *
If Joe Rossi could have had his way, all meetings of the council would have been held in his Manhattan office. He was uncomfortable in the settings the others chose — the back rooms of neighborhood restaurants, private clubs in squalid neighborhoods, sometimes their homes. Alfredo Segesta had chosen today's meeting place, and it was in his home on Staten Island. They sat around a table spread with dishes of food and bottles of wine, and while they talked, Alfredo's black-clad wife and daughter carried in platter after platter of rich Italian food.
Besides, the savory odors that permeated the house would go home with him in his clothes and hair — the smells of garlic, tomato, meat fats and all the spices favored by Mama Segesta. The atmosphere of the house reminded Rossi of all he had escaped when he'd assumed control of the Family and shaped it to his specifications. Things here were much as they had been when his father and grandfather had ruled the Rossi Family.
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