“Whatta you mean, a full abort?” Fontenelli growled.
Bolan’s eyes fell on Blancanales. “What’s the take so far, Politician?”
Blancanales coughed, smiled, and said, “In round figures, the grand total is $147,000.”
“Okay,” Bolan said. “That isn’t nearly enough to make all of you independently wealthy, but it’s a better stake than you had forty-eight hours ago. If you decide to disolve the operation here and now, I’ll throw the kitty into the split.”
“What’re you talking about, dissolve the operation?” Andromede said quietly. “Who wants to dissolve the operation?”
“It might be best,” Blancanales observed. “Like Mack saya—”
“Best for who? For what?” Fontenelli chimed in.
Every one began talking at once, and the briefing fell into total disarray. Bolan shouted them down and soon restored order. “Wait ’til you get all the facts,” he told them. “Now listen to me. I assume that most of you came into the squad because of the money angle. That’s just great with me, and I’m thankful to have had your services. But you have to know-these new pressures have altered the timetable and also the money potential. We’ve reached the showdown stage of the operation much quicker than I’d expected. All of a sudden the gravy has disappeared, and we’re down to the raw meat of the situation. It’s warfare now, pure and simple. What I’m saying is, the glory is gone from this operation. All that’s left now is the hell. I want you to understand that. And I want to give you the chance to cash in your chips and get out of the game.”
“What are you going to do?” Deadeye Washington inquired soberly.
Bolan showed him a grin. “Well … I’m in it for the hell I’m going to finish the operation.”
“By yourself?” Andromede asked.
“He’s not by hisself,” Washington said quickly, beating Bolan’s reply. “gravy always has been too rich all by itself. I’ll take some of the hell, too.”
“Hell yes,” Gunsmoke Harrington spoke up. “I’m not splitting, Sarge.”
“Well, talk it over between yourselves,” Bolan said. “Politician will cash you out if you decide to leave. I’m going down to the beach. I’m recessing this briefing for half an hour. When I get back, we’ll plan the grand slammer around what’s left of the squad. Thanks and good luck to all of you, leaving or staying.” Bolan spun about and walked quickly toward the water.
“Well kiss my ass!” Fontenelli exclaimed quietly.
“It looks like at least three positive makes and two more possibles,” Lieutenant Andy Foster reported to Captain Braddock. “The Indian, we’re pretty certain, is Thomas Loudelk, a full-blooded Blackfoot from a reservation up in Montana. He knew Bolan in Vietnam. Disposed of his possessions last week and left the reservation. Tried to cash a thousand-dollar telegraphic money order there. Finally had to go into Butte to cash it. That money order was filed from the Western Union main office here in L.A. The sender was a B. Mackay.”
Braddock grunted. “I’d say that’s positive. Any line on him at this end?”
Foster shook his head. “Not a thing, but we’re still working it. Here’s another, a real colorful character they called Gunsmoke in Vietnam. He wore old-Western-style six-shooters, one on each hip. Just a kid, but they say the Viet cong were in real awe of the guy. He’s been working out at the wild-West park since his discharge, one of those quick-draw artists. Walked off the job one day last week without notice.” The lieutenant raised a meaningful gaze to his superior. “Told his boss he’d fired his last blank. Nice kid, they say. Easygoing, likable, good-looking—always had a bunch of girls clustered around him. Name’s James Harrington. Father owns a sheep ranch up in Idaho. Hasn’t shown up there, and the old man doesn’t seem to care if he never does.”
“Friend of Bolan’s?”
Foster nodded. “Practically a disciple. He was living down in Anaheim. Moved out of his apartment the same day he quit his job. No forwarding address.”
“Call it a positive,” Braddock said. “Who’s next?”
“Well … that’s Zitka. The telex from Saigon confirms the make. He was Bolan’s right-hand man—sniping team, you know—for more than a year. They worked like a hand in a glove. Zitka was a forward member, the advance recon man. The Viets had a name for him that translates into English as Whispering Death. He’s got almost as many decorations as Bolan.”
“Let’s look at those two possibles.”
“This one here is Rosario Blancanales. Special-services sergeant, knew the country over there like a native. Doubles as a medic and an all-around handyman. Does a little bit of everything—mechanic, gunsmith, plays a couple of musical instruments. Organized schools for the village kids and even had a baseball little league going over there in unpacified territory. Say he has a genius for organization and administration. Twice he was recommened for OCS and twice he flunked the entrance exams. Just not enough formal education, it seems.”
“How would he tie in with Bolan?”
He left special services after his second OCS failure, went into an elite combat unit. Worked with Bolan several times as a guide in enemy territory.”
“And where is he now?” Braddock asked.
Foster sighed. “He’s just a possible, remember. He was working at the VA hospital down in Long Beach. Gave notice that he was leaving long before Bolan came on the scene—about a month ago. His supervisor down there told our man that Blancanales was planning on reenlisting in the army. He left his job on schedule, right to the day of his notice, and he left no tracks at all. None. He didn’t reenlist anywhere in Southern California, I can tell you that.”
“Doesn’t seem to fit the pattern,” Braddock mused.
“No, but he has disappeared”, and he did disappear just after the gunfight out at Zitka’s.”
“All right. Keep checking. Who’s the other possible?”
“Angelo Fontenelli, also known as Chopper. Heavy-weapons man over in Vietnam, another Bolan sidekick. He’s married, has a wife and two kids in New Jersey. The wife claims she hasn’t seen or heard of him for two years, and furthermore she’s had no child support from him since his government checks stopped coming. That’s how she knew he’d been discharged. Or so she says.”
“What do you have to tie him to Bolan?”
“Nothing except the past association. In Vietnam. He’s on the suspect list simply because we can’t locate him.”
“Okay. Keep on him. How’re you doing with those vehicles?”
“Hell, that’s damn near impossible, Tim, without some more info to go on.”
“Yeah. Well … we got one lucky break. Lyons’ detail turned up an electronics wholesaler who sold a sizable order of UHF radio equipment this morning. The buyer claimed to be from some technical school. Bought the stuff in loose lots. You know—chassis, components, crystals, odds and ends. Claimed the stuff would be used by students learning to build radio sets.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Lieutenant Foster commented.
“Sure, except the name he gave for the school doesn’t check out, and he paid cash for the stuff. Several thousand dollars. What kind of school sends out a buyer with cash money in his jeans?”
“Smells like a hot buy, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. Lyons is down there now getting an itemized list of the sale.
Foster shifted awkwardly in his chair and asked, “What … uh, what’s the latest on Rickert?”
“Stop, you’re making me sick at my stomach,” Braddock growled.
“You figure he got tipped?”
“Yeah, and I’d give a month’s salary to learn how. Betty said he got a call while he was in the bullroom. Said he turned white as a ghost. He went back into the bullroom, told Menkes he had to personally investigate a hot tip, and he walked out. Five minutes before we went after him. That’s the last anybody’s seen of him. I don’t—”
The ringing of the telephone on Braddock’s desk interrupted his spiel. He scooped up the instrumen
t and said, “Braddock.” His eyes widened and focused owlishly on Foster. “Okay. Yeah. Keep on it and keep me informed. Yeah.”
Braddock slowly cradled the phone. “It’s starting to crack wide open,” he told the lieutenant. “That was Granger. A car buyer down on Figeuroa made a lot purchase from an individual today. The deal involved a red 1968 Corvette Stingray, and blue 1967 Ford Custom, a gray 1967 Mustang, and a 1963 Mercury station wagon.”
“Bingo!” Foster exclaimed.
“Yeah, and listen, how lucky can you get? The name of the seller?”
“Yeah?”
“Rosario Blancanales! Except for the Corvette, the pink slips were all in his name, never reregistered. He’d only had the cars one week from the previous owners. Told the buyer he’d bought the cars for resale but his plans had gone sour and now he had to have his money back out of them. The Corvette has Nevada registration and a bill of sale made out to one Bill Mackay.”
“Now where does this leave us?” Foster asked, eyes narrowing speculatively.
“Leaves us a bit smarter,” Braddock replied. “We can stop looking for those particular vehicles. We can move Blancanales into the positive-make column. And maybe … well, I wonder if Bolan is getting ready to blow town.”
“Doesn’t add up,” Foster said. “Not if he’s the one who bought the radio stuff.”
“Let’s assume that he is. So … he is not blowing town. He’s shifting gears. He’s dumped the hot vehicles, and he’ll be picking up some more. Assume that he won’t steal, he’ll buy. Okay, let’s—”
Carl Lyons stepped through the open doorway. The excitement in his manner stopped Braddock in midsentence. “What’ve you got, Carl?” Braddock inquired.
“It scares me, what I’ve got,” Lyons declared. He advanced to Braddock’s desk and placed a wrinkled sheet of onion-skin paper in front of the captain. “The list of radio parts. Look at those crystals, about halfway down the page.”
“I’m looking. What am I looking for?”
“This is UHF, crystal-controlled stuff. Look at the frequencies he bought.”
“I’m looking, Carl, but I still don’t—”
“Dammit, Captain, he’s covered our Hardcase frequencies!”
Braddock glared tight-lipped at the sheet of paper. Foster half-rose from his chair and craned about to get a look at the parts list.
“Well I’ll be a …” Foster declared in a near whisper.
“How did that son of a bitch get our frequencies?” Lyons inquired angrily.
Braddock was woodenly shuffling through the intelligence items Foster had placed on his desk earlier. He found the piece he was seeking and spread it out under the desklamp. It was a mug shot, the type of photo used on armed-forces identification cards, of a man with dark skin, thick black hair, and piercing eyes.
“Who is that?” Lyons asked.
“That,” Captain Braddock said, “is an Indian. Not a Cherokee or a Navajo, but a Blackfoot. He was standing right there in my doorway earlier today, said he’d seen the Hollywood rhubarb last night. I sent him on down to the control room to file a written statement. I sent him in there myself.”
Lyons could not control the sudden twitching at his facial muscles. “Those nervy bastards,” he said, grinning. “What’re you going to do with nervy bastards like that?”
“I’m going to lock them in a cell and throw away the key, that’s what I’m going to do with them,” Braddock said. He sighed, staring at the photo of Bloodbrother Loudelk. “It’s almost a damn shame.”
“And a waste,” Foster added. “Think of what they could do, with those brains and energies, if they—”
“What could they do?” Lyons asked, quietly interrupting. “I mean, really, what could they do? They became men in a different sort of world—entirely different.”
“They’ve got to live in this one, though,” Braddock snapped. His manner clearly implied that the maudlin hour was over. He viciously punched a button on his intercom. “I want all Hardcase personnel on duty immediately. All detail leaders in the control room in thirty minutes. And get me some communications specialists up here right away. What’s the latest on that electronics-intelligence outfit from San Diego?”
“The navy is flying them up from Miramer,” came the response. “Should get here any minute now.”
“With all their gear?”
“Yes, sir, with all their gear.”
Braddock released the intercom button and pinned Lyons with a stern gaze. “That’s what we’re going to do with the nervy bastards,” he told him. “We’re going to beat them at their own game.”
Julian DiGeorge did not like this Mack Bolan business, he did not like it at all. He wished there could have been some way to avoid this showdown, some way to be rid of the Bolan nuisance without going back to the old ways. When a man reaches the age of fifty-seven, “Deej” reasoned, he should be able to settle down in a peaceful enjoyment of the fruits of his lifetime of labor. Deej, of course, used the word “labor” in the loosest sense; he had no actual firsthand knowledge of what the term even implied. His father had been a gunbearer in the early Capone era and had died in a federal prison. Little Deej had matriculated early into gangland circles, serving as a messenger and bag man on Chicago’s South Side at the age of thirteen. There had been no labor involved in that occupation nor in the Successive moves into numbers, narcotics, prostitution, organized gambling, and finally into the family hierarchy. Labor, to Deej, meant carrying a gun. It meant police roustings and harassment and an occasional short “vacation” behind bars; it meant worry and anxiety, competition with ambitious opportunists within the family, and living most of his days and nights under police suspicion and scrutiny.
Deej had not labored for quite a few years. He had been “Legit,” to all outward appearances, throughout the sixties. He had backed nearly a dozen independently produced motion pictures. He owned three first-class nightclubs and was a behind-the-scenes force in many banking activities. More than one celebrity of stage and screen owed his start to the background maneuvering of this quiet patron of the arts. Understandably, Deej did not like this Mack Bolan business at all.
Many people nowadays, especially those in the upcoming generations, had never heard the words “Mafia” or “Costa Nostra.” When they did, it was usually in some fairy-tale setting, a fiction, a legend. Deej himself laughed politely when the words were humorously employed by televison or nightclub comics. So, understandably, Deej was highly upset with Mack Bolan. Thanks to Bolan, the words were now being heard everywhere a guy turned—and they weren’t being used humorously. Already the President of the country was using this word in official documents sent to the congress. Yeah. Thanks to Bolan, Deej’s peaceful enjoyment of a lifetime’s fruits was being threatened. Thanks to Bolan, Deej was going to have to crawl from under that very comfortable “legit” cover, if only to make sure that it was still securely in place.
There were still many facets of the DiGeorge activities that Deej did not want to see exposed to the public eye. The import business down at the Port of Los Angeles, for instance, and its warehouses bulging with untaxed commodities. The SS Pacific Palace, for instance, with its girls and gaming tables. His partial interest in Tri-Coast, for instance, and their recent exposure as a Mafia money drop. There were many vital business and political connections, also, that would be served for Deej under the Bolan spotlight.
Deej had tried to evade the Bolan showdown. He had offered to put up another hundred thou out of his own pocket to strengthen the open contract on Bolan. He had even suggested that perhaps Bolan could be bought off, perhaps even brought into the family with a full pardon for his sins. But Deej knew, from the wisdom of a lifetime of “labor,” that he’d just been trying to postpone the inevitable. Bolan would have to be met and squashed. There was no evading the showdown. The guy had a hard-on for the family—it was that simple. They’d have to castrate him; they could not screw him to death or sate him with games of romance. There was
only one way to castrate a guy with that big a hard-on. You had to go back to the old ways. You had to get a gun and shove it down his throat and pull the trigger.
Julian “Deej” DiGeorge would have to become a laborer again, briefly. He had already sent his wife and his daughter and his grandchildren to Palm Springs for a quiet vacation. Now Deej would return to the salt mines for a little while. Deej had no choice. He was the big uncle of Southern California. And tonight, the family was coming to council. It would be a death council. For Bolan’s death.
Chapter Thirteen
THE COUNCIL
The Death Squad was waiting for Bolan when he returned from his solitary stroll along the beach. None had left; all were present. Bolan gave no outward sign of pleasure at this development, but his voice was warm and his eyes were sparkling as he said, “All right, let’s get on with the briefing.”
He produced a stack of Polaroid snapshots, which he handed to Zitka. “Everyone take a good look at these. Pass them around. Brother and I were on site a little while ago, and we tried to cover every angle. Study them carefully. We’ll be going in under cover of darkness; I want you to have a good idea of the lay of the land.
“The front of the house faces west, away from the street, looking down on a gentle slope. The patio is flagstoned, runs about a hundred feet deep, seventy-five feet wide, on the upper level and is accessible from the ground floor of the house through these French doors, set into a cement-block wall. The other wall, down at the end of the patio, is only about two feet high. Beyond the wall is terraced lawn—not as steep as it looks in these pictures—three levels. The swimming pool is on the first level below the patio. The tennis court is at the south side of the house. Bocci-ball and putting greens on the north side. The driveway, from the street to the parking area at the rear of the house, is about 200 yards. The terrain is slightly uneven but generally level. There are flower gardens and a number of small ponds back there.
“The only fence is up here along the street. It’s hurricane fencing, eight feet high, and ends at the hedges at either side. The stone gateway stands open; there isn’t even a gate. It’s wide enough to take two cars. The hedges running along the north and south boundaries look very thick—and they are, except right along the ground. It should be easy enough to penetrate, if we decide to go that route. This is not a ‘hard’ house. It is soft, very soft, entirely vulnerable, easily reached and breached. DiGeorge obviously feels secure and respectable enough to have not bothered with fortifications.”
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