Oxley’s ears were ringing from the twin explosions. He was stunned, ill and terrified all at once. His vision was going in and out and he could see Lambretta now as only a red-tinted shadow occupying a halo of light—still at the window. Then Oxley realized that the red tints were being produced by human blood dripping from his forehead—Jimbo’s blood—and the smell of it was overpowering his senses.
He heard his own voice pleading eerily from the background of horror as the image at the window began moving closer. The dissociated groveling sickened him even further, but he could not control it.
He was on his knees, for God’s sake, in Jimbo’s blood, begging for mercy!
And the big man was standing over him now, the hot muzzle of the pistol at Oxley’s forehead.
“You’re naked now,” the cold voice told him, from somewhere atop the red halo. “You’re better off that way, so stay there. No more games. No more cute. We’ll talk now, Raymond.”
And, of course, they did.
Yes. They really got down to the talking, then.
CHAPTER 6
DEATH LOGIC
“Don’t do it! Please! Anything you want … whatever … just say it!”
“I told you what I want, Raymond.”
“I never met the guy! I talked to him on the phone! That’s all!”
“And when was that?”
“About a week ago. It was last Tuesday.”
“Why did you talk to him?”
“Huh? He called me.”
“What about?”
“Well he was—I knew who he was. I mean I knew the name. He brought in some product for Dandy Jack. He said he was worried about that. He didn’t like Dandy’s operation. He said he had a fail-safe and he wanted to talk to somebody about that.”
“He had a what?”
“I figured he meant another shipment, a product reserve.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said it wasn’t part of the deal. I told him I couldn’t even talk to him about that. That wasn’t my territory.”
“What is your territory?”
“Uh … I’m more on the distribution side.”
“Street distribution.”
“No, no. National distribution.”
“This is where it starts?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Huh?”
“How?”
“Uh … well we have a natural setup here. You know, we send people all over the country. From here. Also a lot of promo and demo material.”
“Uh huh.”
“Perfect setup, isn’t it?”
“Yeah it’s quite a setup, Raymond. So why didn’t you want to deal with Carl? Product is product, isn’t it?”
“Well, no. He had raw stuff. That’s Dandy’s territory … the raw stuff. He has to step on it before I get it. I can’t handle raw product. Anyway it sounded like double dealing and it scared me. I couldn’t get involved in anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t get involved like that.”
“Hell no. That would be stepping outside. I wouldn’t think of stepping outside. That’s very dangerous, you know. A guy could end up at the bottom of the Cumberland in a cement barrel.”
“So you turned Carl over to the cement men, eh?”
“No! I swear I didn’t do that! I just told him I couldn’t afford to get involved but I could pass him on up to the right people. He explained, see, and then I realized I’d gotten the wrong impression. He wasn’t trying to double deal. He was just trying to fail-safe it in case something went sour with Dandy … and that’s what he was worried about.”
“But you didn’t want to get involved in that either.”
“Well it was over my head, see. I’m just a cog in this machine. I explained that to Leonetti. He understood. He thanked me.”
“Thanked you for what?”
“For helping him get lined up.”
“How did you do that?”
“I told you. I passed him to the right people.”
“Who did you pass him to?”
“Huh?”
“Who did you pass him to?”
“To uh … I passed him to my sponsor.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means the people I report to.”
“You’re mixing singular and plural, Raymond. How many people did you pass him to?”
“I passed him to my sponsor.”
“Singular or plural?”
“Oh, that’s plural.”
“You’re not being much help, Raymond.”
“No, look! Wait now! I’m not trying to screw you around! I’m just trying to explain it!”
“Try a little harder.”
“Look, see, I’m president of this company.”
“Okay.”
“I’m the chief executive officer. But God, I don’t own it.”
“Who does?”
“Well, a lot of people are involved. I don’t even know who all is involved. I report to Nick Copa.”
“Nick who?”
“Copa. That’s C-O-P-A. He’s the controller. I mean, he’s the local owning partner.”
“Well now, exactly what is he, Raymond? Is he the controller or is he an owner?”
“Both. He’s both. He’s the local—the on-scene controller for the owning corporation. He has partners all over the country.”
“Like who?”
“Oh hell, I don’t know that. They don’t tell me that.”
“And you never wonder about it, eh?”
“Sure, I wonder. I wonder a lot.”
“Do some wondering now, Raymond.”
“Huh? Oh. Okay. We have this deal with TeleBoost. I think that’s one of their satellite companies.”
“What is TeleBoost?”
“They do special promotions. You know. Publicity. To get our artists some national exposure.”
“Keep on wondering.”
“Then there’s Emcee. They get—”
“What is Emcee?”
“That’s a recording label. A record company. Emcee Records. They specialize in golden packaging and TV sales.”
“Run that by me again.”
“Selling by mail order. You’ve seen those ads on television. Like that.”
“This isn’t helping, Raymond.”
“Okay, okay, hold it! It’s hurting my head. The gun is hurting. Okay?”
“It’s going to keep on hurting until I get something more than your corporate family tree.”
“I’m trying to explain it. Okay? The same men own all these companies. See? They also own hotels and casinos and night clubs and all that. And they got a hundred or more company names. How the hell would I know who owns what? How would anybody? Nick Copa is the only guy I ever see. He’s the Nashville controller. For the company. For the whole umbrella of companies.”
“You also called him a partner.”
“In a sense, yes, he’s a partner.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that in Nashville Nick Copa is the boss.”
“Boss of what?”
“Of everything I’ve been talking about.”
“But he’s nationally connected.”
“Oh sure.”
“What’s the Family?”
“Uh, God, I don’t know. Don’t ask me that. Even if I knew, I couldn’t …”
“New York?”
“Maybe New York. Maybe Chicago. I don’t know. I don’t even think it’s a family group—not like a family, you know. More like a coalition. It’s a corporation in the national sense.”
“Based in New York or Chicago?”
“Maybe both, maybe neither, I just don’t know. Can I get up? All this blood is making me sick to my stomach. I’ve got to get—”
“Not yet, Raymond. You stay there and keep thinking. Did you put Carl in touch with Nick Copa?”
“Oh no, God no. I wouldn’t even think of …”
“Who, then?”
“I never initiate direct contact with Nick. If he wants me, he lets me know. But I never initiate anything.”
“Who, Raymond?”
“There’s this guy … works for Nick … directly for Nick …”
“Sort of a lieutenant.”
“Like that, yeah. I passed your friend to this guy.”
“How did you do that?”
“Leonetti says he’ll be at such and such a place at such and such a time. I tell him that’s fine. I’ll pass the word on where’ll he be.”
“And?”
“And I did.”
“Who did you pass it to?”
“I passed it to this lieutenant.”
“This lieutenant has a name?”
“Uh, sure, he has a name. They call him Gordy, I think.”
“What else do they call him?”
“Uh, I think his name is Mazzarelli.”
“Gordy Mazzarelli.”
“Yeah.”
“Say it, Raymond. Say it right out. What is this lieutenant’s name?—this lieutenant you passed Carl to?”
“Gordy Mazzarelli, I said it. Didn’t I say it?”
“You called Gordy Mazzarelli and you told Gordy Mazzarelli that Carl Leonetti would be in such a place at such a time.”
“That’s right.”
“What else did you tell Gordy Mazzarelli?”
“That’s all I told him.”
“So of course Gordy already knew who Carl Leonetti is.”
“Well I guessed he did.”
“Uh huh.”
“But of course I told him why he called.”
“Uh huh.”
“I told him about this fail-safe supply.”
“What else?”
“I told him that Leonetti was trying to sell—wanted to talk to someone in the company about that supply.”
“And what did Gordy say?”
“Huh?”
“What did Gordy say about Carl wanting to talk to someone?”
“He said okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, he’d meet him.”
“Who said that?”
“Gordy said that. Gordy Mazzarelli said okay he’d meet him. He’d meet Leonetti and discuss it with him.”
“Look at my other hand, Raymond. See this? Know what this is?”
“Looks like a—what the hell? Have you been taping this?”
“All the way. Know why?”
“No I don’t know why.”
“You don’t care?”
“No, I don’t care.”
“Maybe Gordy would care.”
“Hey, don’t even, uh.… You wouldn’t.…”
“Call it a fail-safe, Raymond. I’ll let Gordy listen to the tape and I’ll give him the same option I’ve given you.”
“Please don’t do that!”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t let Gordy know I fingered him!”
“Why not? If all they did was meet and talk.…”
“You know what I mean! Even if they were long lost brothers and I brought them back together, you know the position I’m in talking to you like this! You’ve got to keep this confidential!”
“It won’t matter, Raymond. When I’m done with Gordy—”
“No, you don’t understand! You don’t know what you’re going against! I do, I know! You don’t stand a chance. This guy is Nick Copa’s personal torpedo—plus a whole goddamn crew of crazies! You don’t stand a chance!”
“That’s why I made the tape. You’re going to even out the odds a bit for me. You’re going to give me every possible edge, aren’t you?”
“I don’t—how can I? What—?”
“You’re tied to me, Raymond. In life or in death. There’s only one logic for you now, guy. How do you want to play it?”
“I want to play it far away from Crazy Gordy. Let’s just keep him out of this.”
“I guess that’s your decision.”
“Yeah. I see what you mean. Okay, look. I don’t know what they did with Leonetti. I know that he caused quite a stir. I passed him on and that’s all I know. Never a word came back. But I know where his woman is. I’ll make a deal. You give me that tape. I’ll tell you where the woman is. Maybe she knows something.”
Bolan had a better deal in mind.
“Let’s go find the lady, first. Then we’ll talk a deal. If there’s anything left to deal for.”
“And what if there isn’t?”
“Then we’ll seal that deal in hell, guy.”
“I’ll help all I can,” Oxley whispered, sighing in final defeat. It was the raw fear of death speaking, in its own pure logic.
And Mack Bolan knew that it spoke the truth.
It spoke, also, of the stretch toward life. And that was a logic of another kind.
CHAPTER 7
ONCE SOFTLY
It was a wooded estate enclosed by a stone wall. A cluster of red tile roofs poked through the treetops deep within. A modest, dull bronze signboard on the gatepost identified the place as the Juliana Academy and a hastily painted shingle forbade unauthorized entry. The gate was mechanized and operated by remote control from somewhere within. No other security protections were in evidence.
The portion of the grounds visible from the gate was in neglect. Grass and weeds had encrouched upon the drive from both sides. Fallen debris from trees littered the entire area. The wall itself was crumbling, here and there.
According to Oxley, the place had once been a school for girls. Now it was the center of activities for a farflung prostitution ring. Oxley still referred to it as “the school” and had said that he often “referred” young female artists here as a friendly place to improve performing skills while waiting for a break. Bolan knew all too well the only kind of break a girl could expect from a setup like this.
He aligned his vehicle into the entry slot and pushed a button on the call box. He had to send the signal twice again before a crisp female voice responded.
“State your name and business, please.”
Bolan growled back at the box, “Lambretta. Errand for Mr. Copa. Come on, shake it. I ain’t got all day.”
The gate opened without further ado. He eased the car inside and made a slow approach along the drive, alertly taking the lie of the place. There were three buildings all in a cluster about two hundred yards inside the grounds. The architecture was Mediterranean and it had obviously once been beautiful. The central building was a three-story structure with outside staircases and crumbling patios. The flanking structures were large but single stories, rambling—also showing signs of decay and neglect.
A guy was waiting for him outside the main building. He had the Music Row look but Bolan knew better. He stopped the car and got out, scowling not at the greeter but at the shabby buildings.
“Great old joint,” he said coldly. “Why the hell don’t you fix it up?”
“Why the hell should I fix it up, hoss?” the guy drawled.
“What’d you call me?” Bolan growled.
The man grinned and held both hands out at shoulder level. “No offense. It’s just my way of being friendly. “What should I call you?”
“You should call me Mr. Lambretta.”
The cowboy laughed lightly and replied, “So that’s what I’ll call you. What can I do for you, sir?”
Bolan lit a cigarette while still looking the place over, taking his time about it. This operation had to go softly, very softly. Presently he said, “Not a damn thing, cowboy. Where’s Dolly?”
The grin was beginning to look a bit strained as the guy replied, “She’s inside. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up,” Bolan told him. He took the guy by the arm and moved him along toward the house.
“We heard about Dandy Jack,” said the cowboy, still trying to cozy up. “That’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
Bolan said, “Yeah. S’why I’m here. Relax. You’re trying too hard.”
“I’m not�
��uh—okay.” The guy was getting nervous as hell; that much was obvious. “You said an errand for Mr. Copa. What uh …?”
“I told you to relax. I came for Leonetti’s woman and that’s all I came for.”
Relief was flooding that drawling voice as the guy responded to the news. “Oh, right, I knew—I told Dolly that would be the next move, the only logical next move. I mean, shit, you gotta go with what you have.” He was fitting a key to the lock as he spoke. The door swung open and the guy ushered Bolan inside with a flourish. “We all feel sorry for ol’ Dandy but …”
Bolan growled, “Yeah,” and went in.
Nothing in there was crumbling. A large entry foyer, lavish and ornate with marble statuary and red velvets led the way to a magnificently arched doorway and a huge room which may have originally been meant for formal balls. Now it seemed to be serving the function of sensuous reception, very artfully decorated and furnished with extravagance. A pair of broad curving staircases rose to a large balcony and more extravagance.
A pretty woman of about thirty came forward to greet the visitor. The joint would have been incomplete without her. The luxuriously buxom body was appealingly showcased in transparent lounging pajamas and nothing else. The hair was red—though probably not naturally so—soft and bouncy and framing an entirely comely face. But it was the face of a woman who had been everywhere, seen everything, and found the whole experience something less than lovely.
Bolan felt an inner tug of sympathy for that face.
The cowboy performed the introduction. “Dolly, this is Mr. Lambretta. He came to pick up your Russian.”
“Why?” she said, looking directly at Bolan and not acknowledging the introduction.
“I didn’t ask,” Bolan replied coldly, returning the direct stare.
“Maybe I should,” the woman said.
“That’s for you to say. But do it quick. He doesn’t like to wait.”
“I know,” she said quietly. Those hard eyes flashed with an acknowledgment of some inner truth. “Okay. Can’t say I’m sorry to see her go. Nothing but a pain in the butt for me. Doesn’t speak a damn word of English. Keeps the other girls torn up all the time. I’ve had to start sedating her. You’ll have to carry her out. And you tell Mr. Copa I’d rather he didn’t send her back here when he’s finished with her.”
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