"I'll give you this much, Marco. A white flag until eight o'clock. You have that long to just get up and walk away. After that I'll forget that you're old and sick. I won't forget all the rotten misery you've brought to this place. I'll cancel you, Marco. I'll cancel you with all the rest."
A receiver clicked.
Zeno's voice, subdued and whispery, asked, "You say the St. Louis crowd is coming in tonight?"
Bolan replied, "Yeah. With more than a hundred hard guns. They know their thing is busted now, so they're coming for a hot war."
"I don't know why you're doing this, Bolan, but —thanks."
"Don't thank me, guy. If you're there when I get there, I'll cancel you, too."
Bolan hung up, stared solemnly at the telephone for a moment, then mentally crossed his fingers and returned to the warwagon.
Vannaducci, he knew, would never "just get up and walk away."
The old man could not, of course, let on—right in Bolan's face—that he was buying the story of Carlotti's treachery.
But Marco Vannaducci was no idiot. Old, yes— sick, sure—dying, probably—threatened from every side, hell, yes. But he was still a highly dangerous old dog. He'd learned the infighting the hard way, and survived it, and built an empire on it.
He would be scrambling now, fast and hard. There would be hot blood in the Quarter today.
And maybe—just maybe—a couple of old friends from Able Team would get shook loose in the tumult, after all.
18: JUMP OFF
Mack Bolan knew a bit more about Jack Petro than the reverse case, and that was by no mere accident. He'd been interested in the cop since early on into this Southern expedition. The youngish cop's official life was more a matter of public record than that of the usual city detective—mainly due to his work with the New Orleans Crime Commission.
Petro had a law degree, but he had never bothered to sit for the state bar exam. He'd gone from college directly into law enforcement, first for a brief stint with the FBI in a small, western office. Dissatisfied with that duty, he'd served ( again briefly) as a congressional staff investigator, then moved on to a job in his home state as a special investigator for the Louisiana state police. He lasted for two years there before settling finally for a detective's badge with NOPD.
He was regarded as brilliant, innovative—and a pain in the neck to some of the old-line cops who still believed that effective law enforcement was a routine matter of "roust, bust, bash, and belabour." Petro took a more aesthetic approach, working toward what he called "overview into the web"—he was, said the others, a correctional officer, not a cop.
Organized crime seemed a natural niche for a guy like Petro. But even the cops in that division found the "overeducated badge" a bit difficult to work with at times. When the spot opened, Petro was shunted into a sort of autonomous office as liaison officer with the Crime Commission, a civilian outfit with powers to investigate, report, and recommend—but not to actually enforce the law.
Jack Petro had been in the office ever since. He'd "banged on the walls" all over that town, then the state, then at various points around the country—as a speaker and professional witness before other commissions, legislative and congressional committees, and as an expert witness in a number of federal courtrooms.
Yeah, Bolan knew a lot about Jack Petro. Even the vital statistics: age thirty-three, married to a lovely Creole childhood sweetheart, two small children, Catholic, Democrat.
Bolan had sensed something special about the guy even before that first telephone conversation.
It was now time to put that "sensing" to the test. He boldly called the cop from his mobile phone in the warwagon and told him "This is Bolan I figured I owed you a call."
"I figured the same thing," Petro replied tartly. "That's why I've been holed up here all day waiting for it."
Bolan said, "I hear you got the package."
"I did. Thanks. Couple more like that and I'll be out of a job again. Where are you, Bolan?"
"Just cruising your town, Petro. You were right, it's crowded. I was wrong—there will be gunplay in the streets. I'd like to minimize it How about you?"
The cop seemed a bit dazed by it all. "Minimize? Me? Oh, sure, 'course I would. What, uh, do you have, uh, in mind?"
"Ciglia and the St. Louis guns are probably headed this way by now. More than a hundred of them. And I'm getting worried about that. There's no room for them on these streets. You reading?"
"Yeah. The figures we got from Mississippi, though, read more like about fifty guns."
"Wrong. That doesn't include street talent recruited on the spot in Mississippi. They'll be coming in a hundred strong and more. I also have some intelligence to the effect that a special supercharged head squad came down from New York to help quarterback the play. That probably means a convoy. I saw a lot of big, shiny limousines in that parking lot on the beach. Shouldn't be hard to spot and track if they do come in convoy. There's, uh, just no damn room downtown here for those people. That's all I have to say about that."
"Sure, I get you. You're sure about this, now?"
"Reasonably sure. Actually it's my fault. I wanted to egg them in here before the grand hoopla of tomorrow. I'd have never expected this place to grow so wild in just the past few hours. Will it keep growing at this rate?"
"It will," Petro replied, sighing.
"Okay. End of subject. Here's a new one. I need a favor. Maybe you're my man."
The cop coughed and replied, "Run it by. We'll see how it fits."
Bolan quickly and succinctly related the story about Able Group, complete to present time except for the true identity of the missing men. Petro listened with interest, occasionally breaking in with questions and comments. Bolan wound up the tale by adding, "The young lady is out working the streets right now. When and if she makes a positive contact, I'd like to designate you as go-between."
Petro sat silent over that for a moment, then: "You want me to handle the ransom, to pay it if all conditions are met."
Bolan said, "That's right."
"Why me?"
"I trust you. The matter is, uh, very close to me." "Okay. When and where do we get together?" "Money will be in your office within an hour.
That's as close as you and I are likely to get."
The cop chuckled. It was a strained, brittle sound. "I'm going to get fired. Did you know that? Never mind—don't say anything. I'm sick of the damn walls, anyway. Listen to me, Bolan. This tip on the St. Louis guns—did you drop that on me with the expectation that I'd pass it along to the right people?„
Bolan chuckled and replied, "I figure you for a good cop, Petro."
"So where does that leave you? I have a tip for you, phone pal. A contingent of hotshot state troopers are already on the problem. They're not going to jump those people at the state line, you know. They're going to move in right with them, very quiet and very close, and they'll wait for an incriminating event before another move is made. When they close on them, chances are they'll be closing on you as well. Have you considered that?"
"I have."
"Don't push your luck, chum. I may not always agree with my peers on police methodology, but let me give it to you straight. These cops down here are not clowns. They're damn tough and they play for keeps."
Bolan said, "I hope so. This guy Ciglia is as hard as they come. Have you run a make on him?"
"Sure. He's pulled everything in the book. No convictions. I get the idea Missouri would love to see him gone for good. Very bad character. We sure as hell don't want to inherit him."
"Maybe you can bury him for the state of Missouri. One more thing, Petro. You know the town and the people. If you were Tommy Carlotti—with everybody in town after your ass—where would you drop down to cool it off?"
The rackets cop thought about that for perhaps ten seconds before replying, "I'd go to my secret honey's pad over on Dauphine. Is he that hot?"
"Yeah. Is she that secret?"
"She is. Local socialite and widow
who must think it's terribly exciting to bed down with a common hood. I happen to know the lady through a club my wife belongs to."
"I'm surprised Carlotti wouldn't brag up a connection like that," Bolan mused.
"It's a mixed bag. Carlotti's a punk, sure. But he also has very strong survival instincts. Maybe he's been looking ahead to just this sort of possibility. I do know that the whole thing is very hush-hush.
I've even kept it out of my reports because of the lady involved. I mean, what the hell, what would be served by publishing that sort of garbage?"
"I need that address, Petro."
"Why?"
"I'll try not to embarrass the lady. But she could be in big trouble. I know for a fact that Carlotti is. Give me the address."
Petro reluctantly parted with the information, then said: "What the hell is this, Bolan? It's been like dreamtime all day long around here. What kind of cop sits and chats, exchanging tidbits with the most wanted fugitive in the country? What kind of fugitive—?"
Bolan cut him off with a flat chuckle. "I heard a one-liner on the radio the other night to fit that, Petro. Something about . . . a life is meant to be composed like a song—from the heart, with instinct and compassion—not copied in block type from a book of rules."
"Sure," was Petro's only comment to that.
"Live large, Jack."
"Sure, sure."
Bolan broke the connection there and turned his attention to the more pressing problems of the day. There was going to be hell in these streets.
That much was certain.
Bolan's own orchestration of events had assured that. The only consolation for the man was the certain knowledge that it would have been far worse if allowed to develop under its own head of steam. The streets were impossible today; they would be insane tomorrow.
This way, at least, Bolan could exert some handle on the situation; it would be possible to minimize the risks to innocent bystanders.
But the insanity was already setting in. The streets of the Quarter were absolutely nonnegotiable for vehicular traffic. Nothing was moving on wheels in there but paddy wagons, emergency vehicles, and booze supply trucks. You couldn't clear those streets with a team of bulldozers. There was no way to remove the people. And the activities would not dwindle here with the approach of night; they would heighten, and keep building without letup until the big climax tomorrow night.
Fat Tuesday, yeah.
Fat chance for containing an overflow of violence in the streets if the gunplay should be allowed to coincide with the hours of peak insanity.
So, yes—he'd played it right. Now he had to get it all on the numbers, tightly cadenced and moving along under his command.
No easy job, that. Hell, no. But whoever said that any of it was supposed to be easy? Easy was not the name of the game. The name was knockout! Not a TKO, either. They had to be beaten to the flat of their backs, bloodied and senseless, then buried under their own weight without allowing any seepage to ringside.
So okay. Okay. Once more around the town, then— with eyes and ears wide open and fully extended—a final sizing for the climactic battle for New Orleans.
The big kill was on.
Petro turned to his friend from State and said, with a wry smile, "Well . . . you heard. What d'you say?"
The state investigator raised both shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "Sounds like a cool guy. But you shouldn't forget what side of the law he's on. He's dynamite, buddy, pure dynamite."
"You'd better call your people," Petro muttered.
State sighed and reached for the telephone.
Dreamlike, sure, Petro was thinking. Worse than that—almost like a long-running deja vu. What a day! And it was getting wilder by the minute. The reports filtering up from the sources on the streets were telling of wild men running around everywhere —all through the Quarter and down along the Market—up and down Canal Street—over into the Irish Channel and even up into the Garden area. The search, no doubt, for Bolan's friends—a frantic treasure hunt, with Lieutenant Jack Petro of NOPD now holding the payoff bag.
Talk about dissolving walls!
Other reports hinted at growing disease and unrest among the known crime element in and around the city. Sporadic shootings and assaults, in a seemingly unconnected sequence, but all involving the same element—certainly indicative of growing tensions and flaring tempers as the sides squared off and battle lines began drawing their web about the city.
Minimize it? Jack Petro could not even comprehend it! How the hell could a guy like Bolan—a lone guy—under fire from all sides at once and with nothing approaching the resources of a police organization—how the hell could a guy in that position hope to get a handle on it?
Still . . . Petro felt that, by God, the guy would!
The man from State was having trouble getting a line through the switchboard. Petro surged to his eet, looked around the office as though perhaps he might never see it again, then told his friend, "Stay with it, wallbanger. If I'm not back in a reasonable time . . . notify my next of kin, huh?"
"Where you going?"
"I think it's time I put this all on the line. I'm going up to talk to the chief."
The man from State grinned worriedly. "Full disclosure?"
"Half full, anyway. My own department has a right to this stuff. Stay here, will you? If a little green man with pointed ears should pop in here with a bag of money, I want someone here to receive it. Okay?"
State grinned, "I might even offer him a drink."
"Make your call. Hurry, guy, hurry! The walls are crashing down everywhere—can't you hear them? Don't miss your piece of the action."
The guy was laughing as Petro stepped through the doorway . . . but it was clear that he did not know why.
Jack Petro knew why.
Humpty Dumpty banged on a wall.
The wall fell but Humpty didn't.
My, what a view! The wall, now, isn't!
The ex-wallbanger from C/ C Liaison chuckled fitfully all the way to the chief's office.
19: CRUSHED
A harried and unbelieving cop on horseback charged across the intersection, a moving black hole in the churning sea that scattered as if on signal, as he yelled in at Bolan, "Hey, you can't take that bus through here! What the hell do you—back that goddam thing around and get it the hell out of here!"
Bolan stuck an arm out the window to wave a clipboard with an impressive looking sheaf of papers clamped to it. "Television mobile unit," he yelled back. "Read the permits, dammit. I'm going through!"
"Read? Are you nuts, read? Awright, go on! Don't squash any more loonies than you have to!"
"How 'bout clearing a path for me?"
"Oh, sure! What should I do—throw horse shit at them? Get outta here, go on! Just sit on your horn and go!"
Bolan did so.
Ten minutes later he'd managed to creep the fifty or so feet desired to make it into the shallow recess of a recently burned building in the very heart of the French Quarter.
An all-black marching band in dizzying uniforms was marking time right outside his window while continuing a piercing recital of "Basin Street Blues."
The intersection and the mounted cop, just fifty feet back, seemed swallowed and lost forever in the depths of the past.
Someone tossed a candy sucker through the window. Bolan waved to the anonymous giver in the sea of faces and clamped the sucker between his teeth, then he closed the window and set the locks.
If it wasn't Mardi Gras yet, he was damned glad it wasn't.
Other vehicles were creeping through the chaos, horns blaring incessantly—one, a beer truck, the object of tumultuous attention by the crowd surrounding it just a few yards ahead. The brass band was stuck behind the truck, and the truck was bogged down completely now by a human wave that clung to every inch of its body.
Another black hole was moving down the street toward the besieged vehicle, on a mission of rescue.
This was something
a person had to experience to believe.
Bolan shook his head and stepped outside, to the lee side of madness. He'd wedged his wagon into the recess in such a manner that no vehicle could flow around the starboard flank. He went to the rear and fired up the auxiliary generator, simply for the sake of realism, then he grabbed a couple of dummy power cables and spread them along the length of the vehicle. It didn't have to make sense; it just had to be there.
A couple of large decals quickly affixed to the windows completed the job of cosmetic security; the warwagon was now a television network "Mardi Gras Mobile Unit."
And the Executioner had himself a forward base, in the heart of the synthetic madness that was "the Quarter at Carnival."
Day was fading quickly; night edging in and bringing with it an entirely new tenor to the revelries.
Bolan stepped over an empty bottle of Boone's Farm Apple Wine and went back inside.
He stripped down to the blacksuit and carefully selected weaponry for the hard probe into Tommy Carlotti's possible hideaway.
He chose the AutoMag, without backup—loose cartridges in the pocket instead of spare clips—then he went out to join the insanity.
The whole damn town was in costume for Carnival.
And so was Bolan.
The French Quarter of New Orleans is a quaint old section that actually embodies the romance and much of the historic culture of the city. Narrow streets designed originally for men on horseback form canyons between unbroken lines of storefronts and row-houses, many of these latter rising three or more stories high and featuring balconies projecting over the street.
The contrast between "outside" and "inside" French Quarter can often be startling for the unsuspecting visitor. Aged and decrepit facades lining the narrow and usually dirty streets may conceal breathtaking splendour within—and such was the case with the address on Dauphine Street
.
Even the facade here seemed less seedy dressed in the festive trappings of Carnival—but it was still weathered wood and sagging balconies to the outside eye. An enclosed courtyard fronted on the street, secure and private behind a stucco wall, exclusive by virtue of a high wooden gate and two big black dudes costumed like Zulu warriors and standing guard over the invitation list.
Pendleton, Don - Executioner 020 - New Orleans Knockout Page 11