When he returned to the safehouse, Joan was still there. She blanched when she saw Pistoia's blood on his shirt, and for a moment it was plain that she thought he'd been hurt. After the warrior's assurance that he was okay, she went to the kitchen and opened two beers.
"Brognola wanted you to call him no matter when you got in."
He sat down beside the telephone and dialed the confidential number that could always be switched through to Hal Brognola, wherever he was. He waited for the call to be forwarded, probably to the big Fed's home.
"Striker?"
"What can I do for you, Hal?"
"You keep late hours. I don't think you're getting your rest."
"I had a little business to attend to."
"I know," Brognola said. "I heard already."
"Already?"
"Already. There are some unhappy people at NYPD. I had a call from a captain, complaining that my people had mounted a big operation in his jurisdiction without advising him."
"The Barbosas were running a big layoff book right under his NYPD nose," Bolan replied. "If anybody had notified the captain, it's likely someone in the department would've tipped them off."
"I know, but it doesn't make any difference. I told the captain my man Joe Coppolo had been wounded in New Jersey and was hobbling around on canes, so it couldn't have been him who shot up the Barbosa book and wasted three mafiosi."
"Wasted two, actually. The one they called Pete was killed by his own man."
"Anyway," Brognola continued, "the guys standing around heard the hit man call you Bolan. I told the captain I'd heard the name but had no idea where Bolan might be these days."
"He didn't tell you the rest of it?" Bolan asked.
"Nothing more. Only that a guy identified as Bolan had entered a big book and shot three men. Three, as he got the story. You're a wanted man, Striker."
"The rest of it is that I started a bonfire and burned almost a quarter of a million in cash, a lot more in markers and the ledgers."
Joan's mouth dropped open, and Brognola whistled.
"I figured it was a good way to let the Barbosa don know he made a big mistake when one of his hitters shot Joe Coppolo."
"There's a million-dollar contract out on you," Brognola told him. "Besides, you're on NYPD's all-time shit list."
"Figures. I've been on that list before, and it's not the first contract out on me."
"NYPD still thinks you're a complete outlaw. We can't tell them there's any relationship between you and us. NYPD is too big an organization, with too many kinds of guys. You know what I mean. Only two men in the department even know about Joe Coppolo."
"Understood."
"Listen. I've got something for you. It'll be coming up by courier. Interpol supplied a picture of Salvatore 'Whitey' Albanese. It's an old passport photo, but it'll give you an idea what the guy looks like."
"Thanks."
"What are you planning?"
"I'm going to keep the heat on the Barbosas," Bolan replied.
"Well, okay. But sooner or later you've got to turn your attention to the bigger problem."
* * *
"I pay two fortunes into the fund for this great hitter of yours," Luca Barbosa complained angrily, "and what has he accomplished? Bolan still runs wild. Last night he cost me half a million dollars! Where's this expensive hitter? What's he doing?"
"Better than you're doing, Don Barbosa," Carlo Lentini said. "You've tried three times now to eliminate Bolan, and it's cost you six men, plus two in a hospital in New Jersey. Under arrest in a hospital in New Jersey, on weapons charges. What happened to you last night was retaliation for the wounding of a Fed in New Jersey. And maybe it was a warning."
"Warning! Somebody's warning me? Who?"
"Bolan, that's who," Al Segesta replied.
"In any case," Barbosa said, gathering his dignity around him, "we are free of Vincenza Grotti. That much has been accomplished."
Joe Rossi spoke. "I've had calls," he said quietly, "from Don Sestola in Baltimore and Don DeMaioribus in Providence. They want to know why we're stirring up Bolan. He was off fighting other battles. Now he's back harassing us. The Commission was ready to execute Cesare Frenchi for bringing down Bolan on our heads. Now they are talking about someone here doing the same." He turned and fixed a solemn gaze on Luca Barbosa. "I haven't mentioned your name to them, Luca. They do."
Barbosa frowned. He was troubled. "What am I to do?" he asked. "It's me he seems to be after. Am I to let him destroy me?"
"No," Rossi replied. "But we do ask you to stop sending out these headhunters he knocks off one after another."
"Why did Toke kill Pete?" Segesta asked gruffly.
"Bolan killed Pete," Barbosa said.
"Some say that Toke killed him," Segesta insisted. "Told him he wasn't valuable, then shot him. Which was a mistake. Toke was as wild and dangerous a man as Whitey Albanese. Why did you bring this man up from Miami, Luca? Why did you have him kill Pete? Was Pete Pistoia so inconsequential? Wasn't he valuable?"
"Valuable…" Barbosa mumbled. "Worth half a million, do you think? Half a million? Much more. They were burning the records of my biggest layoff book. When Toke called to tell me, I ordered him to stop it, whatever it cost. I was lucky he wasn't so far away."
"So you lost Toke as well as Pete, plus your cash, and markers and ledgers," Lentini said.
"How do you know this?"
"Two of your bookkeepers aren't your bookkeepers anymore," Segesta replied. "When they saw Toke shoot Pete, obviously on your orders, because he wasn't a valuable enough man, they decided they probably aren't valuable enough to you, either. You lost their respect. They've come over to me. I promise you I won't allow them to work against you in any way, but they are my men now, under my protection."
Barbosa didn't bother to conceal his resentment, but he said nothing.
"Gentlemen," Rossi said. "A new member sits at our table. We welcome Philip Corone. He would like to say a few words to us."
Arturo Corone's successor was a thin, long-faced young man with a sepulchral expression. Conspicuously nervous, he clasped his hands together on the table to stop their trembling. He was only thirty-one years old. He had two older brothers, but neither of them wanted any part in their father's Family.
"I thank you all for your assistance and support," he began. "If not for you, the Corone Family would have become the Grieco Family. Even my sister thanks you, for having relieved her of an abusive husband. As a token of my gratitude, I an transferring to your several families a substantial share of the Corone Family businesses."
The dons nodded at this young man, who hadn't yet earned — and might never earn — the title don. They had conferred on him a diminished corpus of the powers his father had held, and he was graciously bestowing on them the shares they would have taken anyway.
"We will operate a reduced, trimmed group of businesses. I venture to hope you will approve the way we run them."
The dons nodded again, pleased by the deference this young man accorded them, and Philip Corone smiled shyly and fixed his eyes very briefly on each man's eyes.
"Thank you, Phil," Rossi said. "Now…Bolan."
"What about your million-dollar contract?" Segesta asked.
"It will prove worth the million dollars," Rossi replied. "Or we won't be obligated for the million dollars."
"Would it be inappropriate for me to offer a suggestion?" Philip Corone asked.
All of them looked at him. Like a junior member of the United States Senate, he was supposed to listen and learn for a long time before he took part in discussions.
"Phil," Rossi said, "what is your suggestion?"
"Smoke him out, as we might say. What does he want? What does he care about? Make him come to us."
" 'What does he care about? " Barbosa mimicked. "All we know about the man is that he's crazy. What brings him to us?"
"Every man cares about something," Philip Corone said quietly. "I've made it a point to
find out as much as I can about Mack Bolan. With every respect, Don Barbosa, the man is not crazy. He was motivated originally, a long time ago, by some very human emotions. Today… I don't know. He is unmarried and has no regular girlfriend, as far as I can discover. He has no children. His family… I mean, his parents… Well, their misfortunes seem to have been the source of the hatred that once drove Bolan. But they are long gone. He values his friends…"
"Does he work for the government or doesn't he?" Segesta interrupted.
"No," Corone replied. "There might be some kind of relationship at a very high level, but it's unofficial and secret. No. The man is independent. That could be the key to Bolan — his independence."
"What kind of key is that, Phil?" Rossi asked.
"No man," Corone replied, "can live permanently without human relationships. He cares about somebody."
"So the key to Bolan," Barbosa concluded, "is to find out who he cares about and get that person."
Corone nodded. "With all respect, Don Barbosa, the key to Bolan isn't to attack him, but to attack someone or something he cares about. He's one man. He can't defend everyone and everything that's important to him."
"Dammit!" Segesta snapped. "We hear Bolan, Bolan, Bolan. Who says there is a Bolan? Guys outsmart us sometimes. Guys…"
"There is a Bolan," Rossi interrupted. "Let's listen to Phil Corone."
The newcomer stood. They were sitting around the conference table in the Rossi's Park Avenue office. "With every respect to all of you," he began, "it's my impression that Bolan is real. He is not just a bugaboo invented by guys who've suffered losses. I don't doubt, Don Barbosa, that the man who hit your book last night was Mack Bolan. Too many good men have lost their lives — or lost what was theirs — to doubt it. Let's, then, make a rational plan to rid ourselves of him."
* * *
When the meeting broke up, Luca Barbosa left the Pan Am Building in the company of two bodyguards. On the west ramp he entered a black Lincoln that was waiting for him. The Lincoln didn't leave the building but circled it, coming around to the east ramp and the entrance to the Hyatt Hotel, where it stopped.
Philip Corone hurried out of the hotel and entered the back seat, joining a grinning Barbosa and flashing a big grin of his own. The don extended his hand. Corone took it in his own and pressed his lips to it.
"Don Barbosa," he murmured.
"It was well spoken, Phil."
"Thank you."
"I deeply regret the loss of your two Miami men. I will pay Peter DiRenzo."
"I have already paid Don DiRenzo," Corone replied. "It's a small service, considering what you did for me."
Barbosa smiled slyly. He had told Corone that the black woman who killed Grieco was sent by him.
"I'm sorry the two Miami hitters were killed before they could do their job," Corone continued.
"So am I. But I had to try to stop what Bolan was doing to me last night. That cost me more than I admitted, Phil."
"We can find other men," Corone said sympathetically. "Maybe from Cleveland, maybe Detroit…"
Barbosa nodded. "I intend to import others," he said grimly. "This man Bolan…"
"Forgive me, Don Barbosa," Corone interrupted, "but I suggest we keep our priorities in order. First, Rossi. Then Bolan."
The mafioso shrugged. "We shall see."
* * *
The Eastern flight from New York arrived at Miami International a little after three, only forty minutes late. The big man in the trim business suit strode through the concourse with an air of familiarity and confidence. He was familiar with the airport; he'd been through it many times before.
Ruggiero Tokenese belonged to the Miami-based DiRenzo Family and had no business being in New York. Mack Bolan knew of only one way of finding out what he'd been doing up north.
At the Hertz counter he picked up the black Ford Thunderbird he had reserved, settled behind the wheel and started the engine and the air conditioner before he felt under the seat. Yeah. It was there. He felt the weight and shape of the vinyl-wrapped package and was satisfied that it contained what he had requested — a silenced Beretta 93-R.
In bright Florida sunshine he drove the Thunderbird through the interchanges, established himself on Interstate 95 and sped north out of Dade County and into Broward County. Leaving the interstate at Commercial Boulevard, he drove east to Florida Highway A1A and into the town of Pompano Beach.
He had reservations at a modest beach motel called Ocean Ranch. He checked in, carried his bag — which now held the Beretta — to his room and changed into Florida clothes: a pair of white slacks, a white polo shirt and a blue blazer. What wasn't Florida was the shoulder rig under the blazer and the snugly holstered Beretta.
It was five o'clock by now, and the Executioner went to the poolside bar and ordered a beer. Most of the men and women who lounged there were in bathing suits. They took notice of the tall, athletic-looking man in the blue blazer.
"You haven't been out on the beach yet," said a young blonde in a tiny, iridescent-blue bikini. "Anyway, you're not pink yet."
"No. Just checked in," Bolan replied.
"Alone?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm expecting some business friends," he said.
She nodded and turned her attention to her martini.
The bartender was a young bare-chested man who wore a pair of white boxer trunks. He had observed the approach by the blonde, and when she moved away, he smiled knowingly at Bolan.
"I haven't been around in a year or so," Bolan said. "Still find the action where it always was?"
The youth nodded. "Pretty much, as far as I know. I don't get around much. Depends on what kind of action you mean, I guess."
"All kinds. Anything new, that you know of?"
"I don't hear about anything."
His visit to the poolside bar had only been to reinforce his cover as a businessman-tourist. When he had finished his beer, he left the motel and drove the Thunderbird west on Atlantic Boulevard, toward the Florida Turnpike, where in past years there had been some clubs where tourists looking for relief from the beaches had gawked at strippers, spun the wheels, rolled the dice and left their money. In the parking lots of small shopping malls, white Cadillacs had waited for the customers who wanted to take little bags of white powder back to their motels.
All of this was outside the main focus of the Miami rackets, where the big action was. It was outside the battleground contested by the old Families and the new operators coming in from the south, the bloody streets where, almost nightly, men died in savage combat. In Pompano Beach, coke sold by the gram, not by the ton.
Other times, Bolan had come here to strike hard blows. Now he'd come for what might be called a surgical strike.
Maybe. If the right men were still where they used to be. If the right joints were still where they used to be. If they weren't, well, he'd have to go for a different angle.
It had been quite some time since he'd been in this part of town, but some things never changed. The Panther Lounge was still brightly lighted, and, although it had a new coat of paint, it was still, apparently, the raunchy joint it had been before.
At this time of the evening, only a few cars were in the lot, so the warrior drove on to Fort Lauderdale. He cruised past the canalfront estate of Peter DiRenzo, which was guarded by two hardmen at the gate and, doubtless, by others on the canal. Four years ago the house had been fired on from the canal. The canalside walls were reinforced by steel now, and the windows were bulletproof glass. The rumor was that Mrs. DiRenzo had wept to see her home turned into a fortress, then had moved out to live in a penthouse in Las Vegas.
Maybe DiRenzo alone knew why Tokenese and the other gunman had gone to New York. But, if Bolan understood this organization at all, the Miami don had confided in at least two men — his consiglière, Dominic Giancola, and his senior capo, Pablo Geraldo.
Giancola loved the Panther Lounge — or had, in years past. He could be found there almost every night
, eating, drinking, and ogling the girls. If he didn't show up there tonight, then Bolan would look for Pablo Geraldo later, at his home in Deerfield Beach.
* * *
Bolan returned to the Panther Lounge at nine. The place was nothing unusual — a long bar and thirty or forty tables in a big room dimly lighted except for a garishly bright stage. When Bolan had been there years earlier, there had been live music. Now what passed for music blared from speakers. Harried waiters and waitresses scurried around the room, carrying trays of drinks. The room was smoky, and the crowd was about two-thirds male. It was about ninety percent tourist.
He stepped to the bar and ordered a beer. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to scan the tables and caught sight of Dominic Giancola immediately.
The mobster was in his sixties but looked older, and he had survived what would have killed a dozen lesser men. In his fifty years as a made man, Dominic Giancola had been wounded by hit men four times, had lived through the sinking of his yacht in the waters between Key West and Cuba and had served fourteen years, all told, in state and federal prisons. In his twenties he had done time on a chain gang and had been beaten by a guard and knifed by another prisoner. He drank too much, smoked too much and used cocaine. He suffered from a weak heart and reportedly from syphilis. But he survived.
His pale blue eyes watered. His sunken, wrinkled cheeks collapsed when he sucked on a cigarette. His expensive light blue silk jacket hung on him like limp clothing on a hanger. But he nibbled on shrimp, sipped from a martini and stared intently at the performance on the stage.
It was amateur night in the Panther Lounge, which had practically guaranteed that Giancola would be there. He loved to watch the girls take off their clothes. Maybe his abused body could no longer do anything but look. He never let one of the bar girls join him at his table. He lived alone, except for a bodyguard. He came to the Panther Lounge and other clubs and looked.
Giancola was spellbound by the woman on the stage. She had been introduced as a schoolteacher from Vincennes, Indiana, and did seem genuinely embarrassed as she shuffled around the stage, out of rhythm with the pounding music, and took off her clothes. Bolan guessed she was just another stripper, maybe from some other club, stripping out of ordinary clothes instead of one of the grotesque, stiff costumes affected by the regular strippers. Anyway, it was a good act. For most of the customers, she personified a fantasy they wanted to believe, and Giancola wasn't the only man in the room who stared at her in rapt fascination.
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